


May

by leoandsnake



Category: Top Gun (1986)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-31
Updated: 2012-07-31
Packaged: 2017-11-11 03:20:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 33,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/473946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leoandsnake/pseuds/leoandsnake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twelve years into the future, Maverick's marriage to Charlie is dissolving, his relationship with his son is strained, and he has to cope with Iceman returning from a decade-long tour of duty to teach alongside him at Top Gun Academy. (This work was originally posted in chapters at FF.net, where it can still be found. I am moving the majority of my fic to AO3 due to their crackdown on mature works.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

May 16, 1998. Miramar, California.

"I got a call today," said Charlie as she stepped into the kitchen.   
Maverick was standing at the sink, staring out into the night as he ran a sponge over the same wine glass over and over again.   
"Maverick?"   
"I heard you," he muttered, shutting the water off.   
"It was from the Pentagon," Charlie said, flicking her eyes over him warily.   
"Another job offer?"   
"Yes."   
"Okay, fine," Maverick said, setting the glass down on the counter a little harder than he meant to, "fine, what do you want me to say?"   
"I don't expect you to say anything."   
"Then why'd you bring it up?" he demanded.   
"Because I don't know what to do."   
Maverick was silent as he dried his hands.   
"Maverick, please ."   
"God damnit," Maverick snapped, "god  damnit , Charlie! What do you expect me to say? You wanted to raise a family, you've been happy, I've made you happy! Now all of a sudden you're making it sound like Washington is breaking down our fucking door, you're in such high demand -"   
"It's not all of a sudden, honey -"   
"I sure as hell wasn't hearing about it before!"   
"Please," she told him, blue eyes flashing, " please stop yelling. Nick's just in the other room."   
Maverick began absent-mindedly twisting his wedding band up and down his finger, looking around the room, eyes lighting anywhere but Charlie's face. Finally he said, quietly, "I'm trying, here. I really am."   
Charlie didn't answer, just shook her head as she slid a few dishes into the sink.

May 17, 1998. United States Navy Fighter Weapons School, Miramar, California.

"You seem distracted," Jester said, as Maverick shuffled a stack of papers into order.   
"No, I'm okay," Maverick replied, running a hand through his dark hair.   
"Well, good, because you're about to get some news and I don't know how you're gonna take it," Jester told him, as the latest group of pilots began filing into the room. They had arrived a few weeks ago, shavetail lieutenants with eager smiles, brimming with confidence. Maverick found it hard to believe he had ever been one of them.   
"Huh?" Maverick replied, looking up, but Jester had already moved on, addressing the boys.   
"Today, gentlemen, you will have the honor of meeting a highly decorated naval aviator, who attended this very school before taking a tour of duty around the world. He flew alongside Commander Mitchell," Jester said, gesturing toward Maverick, "and was the top of his class in nineteen eighty-six."   
Maverick was still half-absorbed in thoughts of Charlie, thoughts of marriage counseling and far-away job offers and the son that he never seemed to be able to do right by, but that phrase  \- top of his class in nineteen eighty-six -  jerked him out of his reverie.   
"Please welcome Commander Tom Kazansky," Jester said, "or Iceman," and the aforementioned stepped through the door.   
Maverick felt like he had been punched in the gut.   
Iceman was as handsome as ever, face now lined with twelve years of sun and smiles and emotion, hair shorter, darker, uniform decorated like a store-front Christmas tree. His hazel eyes lit on Maverick for an instant, and then a smile graced his lips.   
"He has most generously offered his teaching services, and we have accepted," Jester said, and stepped back, glancing at Maverick.   
"Oh, have we?" Maverick muttered, but walked forward and touched his forehead in salute. "Iceman," he said.   
"Maverick," Iceman replied, mirroring his salute, and smirking slightly. "Good to see you."   
Maverick nodded. "You too," he said, and shook Iceman's hand. His spine tingled and he pulled away, addressing the class. "Okay, today we're going to discuss the effects the two conformal fuel tanks have on the drag ratio of the F-15E Strike Eagle," he said, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Iceman looking at him with that familiar steady gaze.

May 19, 1998. United States Navy Fighter Weapons School, Miramar, California.

There was a soft knock at Maverick's door. "Sir?"   
Maverick looked up. "Lieutenant Padgett," he said, clearing his throat. "Come in."   
"I was just curious what, uh," said Padgett, first name Harvey, who went by the callsign of Snowflake, because he was pale all year round no matter how much sun he got. "What your latest evaluation of my flying was based off of? Sir?"   
"Your flying," Maverick replied, running a hand through his hair.   
"Yeah, but, sir-"   
"Look," Maverick interrupted him. "You're good. But you could be better. You need to learn to trust your instincts more. Let your gut take over once in a while."   
Padgett nodded. "I understand."   
"Dismissed," Maverick told him.   
On his way out Padgett said, "oh, hello, sir," and Maverick looked up again to see Iceman cutting a tall, dark figure in his doorway. His heart jumped into his throat.   
When they both were alone, Iceman said, "So."   
Maverick didn't exactly know how to respond to that.   
"Did Metcalf retire?" Iceman said, wandering over to the bookshelf, straightening the spines of thick novels full of flight tactics.   
"What?" Maverick said, jerking his attention away from Iceman's fingers.   
"Viper."   
"Oh, yeah," Maverick said. "Three years ago." He realized he was fiddling with his wedding band and stopped, but not before Iceman had turned around.   
"And you and Blackwood got married?" Iceman sat down across from him.   
"Ten years this December," Maverick said quietly.   
Iceman nodded.   
"So where were you stationed?" Maverick asked him.   
"Here and there," Iceman replied shortly.   
They sat in silence for a moment, not meeting each other's eyes.   
"You have a kid," Iceman said, finally.   
"Excuse me?"   
Iceman gestured toward the picture of the three of them on his desk.   
"Oh," Maverick said. "Nick. He's eight."   
"Nick," Iceman murmured. "After Bradshaw?"   
"After Goose, yeah."   
They lapsed into silence again.   
Iceman stood up to leave, then tilted his head at Maverick and said, "Funny how things never change, Mitchell."   
"Funny," Maverick repeated, rubbing the inside of his thigh with his fingertips, trying to ignore the prickling in his lap.   
The door closed behind Iceman and Maverick went back to playing with his wedding ring, slipping it on and off and staring into space.

May 22, 1998. Lyric Opera House. San Diego, California.

"Lord, is it good to see you, Maverick," Carol cried, pulling him into a hug. "Charlotte, you look gorgeous," she told Charlie, who smiled and dabbed at her lipstick with a finger.   
"Hey, Carol," Maverick said, smiling. "Hi, Richard," he added, shaking Carol's husband's hand, and it still felt strange to him, even though they'd been married five years and Goose had been gone for twelve.   
"Sorry we're late," Charlie said, glancing at Maverick. "We had a bit of trouble with the sitter."   
"Oh, don't worry about it, honey," Carol said. "I remember when Scott was that age. Seems like it was yesterday, and now he's nearly off to college," she said.   
"I'll go check the coats," Richard said. Charlie handed him her shawl.   
"While you're doing that, sweetheart, I'll run to the little girl's room," Carol said, and turned to Charlie. "You want to come with?"   
"Actually, I have something to discuss with Pete," Charlie said, and Carol nodded and left.   
Maverick's smile faded.   
"What do you want?" he said through gritted teeth.   
"We need to talk," Charlie said.   
"Is this really a good time? Does this seem like a good time to you?"   
"You won't talk to me otherwise."   
"That's bullshit -"   
"It's not a divorce I'm talking about, Maverick, it's a trial separation. It's just a little time apart, a little time to think -"   
"You just want me gone so you can get your own damn lawyer and figure out how you're going to carve up our family! I'm not stupid, Charlie, I see the numbers you write down for divorce attorneys!"   
"That's the worst case scenario,  dear,  because I seem to be the only one that ever plans  for the worst case scenario! I'm trying to think of what's best for our son!"   
People standing around them in the lobby began to stare. Maverick stared back at them defiantly and they averted their eyes.   
"Yeah, you're the only one who ever knows what's best for our son," Maverick snapped. "Because you're the only one that ever does anything right, I forgot."   
" God ," Charlie hissed, "you just take  everything at face value -"   
"If you're leaving me," Maverick interrupted her, "I'd like to know, so I can get on with my life. Don't run around behind my back and then talk semantics to my face, and don't you dare act like you know what's best for my son better than I do."   
She stared at him.   
"Hey."   
Maverick turned to see Carol handing him two tickets. She glanced between the two of them and cleared her throat. "Just in case you get up during intermission."   
He handed Charlie one of them. She took it wordlessly.   
"Well," Richard said as he approached them. "Time to go in, I guess. What's this play, Lady Butterfly?"   
"Madame Butterfly," Charlie murmured.   
Carol took Charlie by the arm and they walked through the gold-rimmed doors together, Maverick and Richard a pace behind.   
"Hey," Richard said in an undertone. "I don't mean to pry, but uh - is everything okay?"   
"Yeah," Maverick lied. "Yeah, everything's fine." He flashed a fake grin that made his jaw ache with the effort.   
"Just wondering," Richard said, and patted him awkwardly on the arm as they stepped into the darkness of the theater.

May 24, 1998. Miramar, California.

"I could stay with my sister."   
Maverick sighed, set down his cup of coffee, and began rubbing his temples.   
"It would just be temporary -"   
"Then why don't you stay in a hotel?"   
"Because -"   
"Because it's not  just temporary , right?"   
"Stop interrupting me. I'll go stay with my sister in Napa -"   
"Napa? I thought Libby lived in San Jose."   
"No. I don't know where you got that idea."   
Maverick was quiet. "For how long?"   
"Until we've got this sorted out."   
"Well, when is that gonna be?"   
Charlie tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.   
"Hey, Mom?"   
They both looked up to see Nick standing in the doorway, baseball glove in his hand. He glanced between them. "Can I go over to Danny Costello's? His mom said it would be okay."   
"Um," Charlie said distractedly, "I don't see why not -"   
"Did you put it under your mattress?"   
Nick's brow knit in confusion, and then he realized that Maverick was talking about his glove. "Oh, to break it in? Yeah. So can I, Mom?"   
"Yes," Charlie said. "Yes, it's fine."   
A moment later the front door had slammed behind him.

May 25, 1998. United States Navy Fighter Weapons School, Miramar, California.

"Kazansky?"   
Iceman looked up. Maverick cleared his throat. "I have a few things you need to sign," he said, handing him a manilla folder across his desk and shifting his weight from one foot to the other.   
"Fine," Iceman muttered, accepting it and returning to his computer, brows furrowed as he leaned back in his chair.   
Maverick circled the desk, stopping next to Iceman, who turned to him, swiveling in the cheap, standard-issue but nicely upholstered desk chair. Maverick stared into his hazel eyes and felt everything reflected in them - wedding cake and thirtieth birthdays, terraces with crawling ivy and Congratulations, It's A Boy balloons, his supposed happiness - rushing up slap him in the face. He drew in a breath.   
"What you said today about strike missions..."   
Iceman tipped his head back and nodded. Maverick's eyes slid across his neck and he lost his train of thought.   
"So you never settled down," he said, glancing at Iceman's bare ring finger.   
"No," Iceman replied, gazing back at him, voice even. "Guess I didn't find the right... the right person."   
Maverick got even closer, his knee between Iceman's thighs, gently running his hands over his chest. He popped the first button of the collar on his dress whites, and slipped his finger through the hole.   
"Maybe you got lucky," he murmured, "'cause settling down isn't all it's cracked up to be."   
"Mitchell," Iceman said, voice suddenly strained. "I think you're getting the wrong idea," he said, nudging his hands away.   
"I don't think so," Maverick said, fingers trailing down Iceman's stomach to his lap, where the fabric of his pants tented.   
Iceman cleared his throat and sat forward, pushing Maverick off. "I'm not going to be responsible for you fucking up your marriage," he said, quiet and stony.   
"My marriage is already fucked up," Maverick told him.   
They stared at each other.   
"Get out of my office," Iceman told him.   
Maverick didn't move.   
"I'm not going to tell you twice."   
Maverick brushed himself off and left, stomach in knots. He was barely down the hallway when he ran into Jester.   
"Commander Heatherly," he said.   
"Afternoon," Jester replied. "Were you just talking to Iceman?"   
Maverick swallowed. "Yes."   
"Did he mention anything about the Pacific?"   
"Uh... no."   
"Ah," Jester said. "I was reading up on his file an hour or so ago. Didn't get the specifics, but turns out he went through some pretty tough shit. Had a real rough time of it, lost a lot of good men."   
Maverick nodded.   
"Guys go through something like that, they're almost never the same again. Well, I'll see you later, Commander."   
Jester disappeared down the hallway.   
Maverick took in a deep breath and continued on his way.

May 28, 1998. Miramar, California.

Moonlight was pooling into the room, dropping gently through the curtains and falling across the bed in pale squares. Charlie was sleeping softly, facing away from him, her nightgown making a  shhsh -ing sounds against the sheets as she moved.   
Maverick shut his eyes tightly as he slipped his hand beneath the covers and ran a hand along himself, arching his back. He pressed his face into his pillow and bit his lip. Iceman's face filled his mind, his lithe, shirtless body, frozen as it was twelve years ago. He strained to remember details - the freckle near his collarbone, the exact color of his eyes, his blonde hair... Maverick imagined fisting his fingers in it, straddling his lap, Iceman looking up at him, shrewd, the curve of his brow in shadow, Iceman inside of him -   
He let out a choked moan, bending over himself.   
Charlie sat up. "What the hell  are you doing?"   
"Fuck," Maverick said, as pre-come leaked onto his fingertips. He rolled over. "Go back to sleep."   
"What are you  doing ?"   
"We haven't had sex in six months," Maverick muttered, getting up and flicking a bedside light on. He stumbled into the bathroom and began rinsing his hands off. "What do you expect?"   
"Oh, please," Charlie hissed. "Like I had any choice in the matter -"   
"Yeah," Maverick interrupted her in a loud voice, "that's me, the ineffectual husband, the piece of shit father, just like  my father, I guess, you want to fucking bring  that  up again? How my  daddy problems are  preventing me from having a healthy relationship with my wife -"   
"I never -"   
"That's all you could fucking talk about in counseling! You made me sound like I was the only one who needed therapy, when you're the one who holds yourself hostage every time I do something you think is  wrong!"   
"You  quit on therapy! You quit on  everything!"   
"I didn't quit on  you! You're quitting on me!" Maverick wheeled around and slammed the bathroom door behind him.   
"So what do you think about when you jack off, huh, Pete? That waitress the other night at dinner? I saw you checking out her ass, I'm not blind, you know -"   
"That's none of your business," he snapped, sitting on the bed.   
"Come on, you can tell me," Charlie said, taunting him. "It's not like we're trying to save anything here, are we? You're just waiting for me to give up on you so you can pretend that's what I was doing all along, even though I've been working my ass off to save this marriage, even though I raised your son for nine years. I can't even get a straight answer out of my husband!"   
"You really want to know? I was thinking about Iceman," Maverick hissed through clenched teeth.   
The blood drained out of Charlie's face. "Excuse me?"   
"He came back to teach at TOPGUN," he said. "And you know what I did the other day? I went into his office and hit on him, I tried to get him to have  sex with me, because I can't get any from my fucking wife! Like father like son, right? Tell  that to your goddamn therapist!"   
Maverick stood up and shoved the lamp off of their bedside table, breathing hard.   
Charlie stood there, stock-still, like she had been punched in the gut. Maverick couldn't look at her.   
Suddenly, she ran out of the room. Maverick sat down again on the bed and buried his face in his hands.   
She came back in with a suitcase. The closet door slammed open.   
"What are you doing?" he asked, looking up.   
"I'm going," she spat. "I don't have to deal with this shit anymore, I refuse to."   
"Fine!" he yelled. "Fine, leave!"   
"It's for good this time, Peter!" she screamed, shoving random pieces of clothing in the suitcase, hands trembling. "I'm going to my sister's, I'm getting a lawyer, I'm taking fifty percent and I'm taking my son!"   
"Fuck no!" he screamed back at her, standing up.   
"Just watch me," Charlie said, grabbing her suitcase by the handle. "We'll talk in the morning."   
The door slammed again.   
A moment later, Nick crept into the room like a ghost. Maverick stared at him.   
"Dad?" he said. "I heard yelling. Where's Mommy going?"   
Maverick opened his mouth to respond and found he couldn't. His shoulders were shaking.   
Nick left the room. Maverick heard his feet pounding the stairs.   
"Mom!  Mom!"   
The gravel of the driveway crunched underneath the wheels of their Escalade as Charlie pulled out, and then there was silence.

May 31, 1998. Miramar, California.

The phone rang.   
Maverick lunged for it before it could make any more noise - Nick was still, as far as he knew, asleep.   
"Hello?"   
"Hello," said an irritatingly pleasant male voice. "Is this Commander Pete Mitchell that I'm speaking to?"   
"Yeah," replied Maverick. "Yeah, it is. Who the hell is this, calling at eight in the morning?"   
"My apologies. I was told I should call between the hours of eight to ten on the weekend... My name is Beverly Billington, and I'm your wife's divorce attorney."   
Maverick's chest tightened.   
"What do you want?" he said, fingers drumming the countertop.   
"I'm truly sorry to have disturbed you, sir -" Maverick rolled his eyes "- but Ms. Blackwood -"   
"Mrs. Mitchell," Maverick snapped.   
"Oh, I'm sorry, Commander, but that's how she introduced me to herself -"   
"Listen," Maverick hissed into the phone. "Stop apologizing, I hate that, stop talking about my wife like you know her better than I do, stop calling me Commander, my name is Maverick, and tell me  what the fuck you want ."   
Beverly Billington stuttered and cleared his throat. "Excuse me," he said. "I called because I'd like to get in touch with your lawyer."   
"I don't have a lawyer."   
"I'd advise you to get a lawyer."   
Maverick continued to drum the countertop.   
"I'll call you back when I've contacted one," he said, finally. "Can I get your number?"   
Beverly gave it to him and he scrawled it down on a paper towel.   
After he hung up he rifled through the drawers of the island, pulled out the address book, and flipped to B.   
"Hello?"   
"Hey, dolls, this is Libby Blackwood. I'm out right now, so leave a message. If it's business related, my office number's 408-555-8160."   
There was a beep.   
"Hi," Maverick said. "I was trying to reach Charlie -"   
"Hello?"   
Something warm flooded through his stomach when he heard Charlie pick up, but it passed quickly and he felt lead settle into his chest again. "Hey."   
"What do you want?" she said, voice icy.   
"Nick's a mess without you here," Maverick said.   
"He should be fine staying alone with his father," Charlie said.   
"It's not like you left for Disneyland," Maverick snapped. "He knows something's up."   
Charlie was quiet for a moment.   
"I'm not asking for a lot," Maverick said.   
"I was thinking maybe we'd take him out to dinner," Charlie said, "a nice place, and explain it to him."   
"Explain what to him? What is there to explain? You leave in the middle of the night, you don't even tell me where you're going -"   
"Of course I was at Libby's. Where else would I be?"   
"And then I've got divorce attorneys named  Beverly calling me up -"   
"He called you?"   
"Not ten minutes ago, he called me, yeah."   
"Listen, all I'm suggesting is that we act civil toward each other on behalf of our son."   
Maverick didn't like the sound of that. 'Civil' was a divorce word, it was a hard and cold and perfunctory word, without affection and without malice.   
"We'll take him out to dinner," Maverick said, "and then what?"   
"We'll settle that later."   
"Settle it where?"   
"With our lawyers. In court."   
"Settle what?"   
"Maverick, don't be infantile."   
"No, I mean it. Settle what?"   
"We'll discuss this later," she told him, and hung up.   
Maverick called back, but he got the answering machine again, and again, and again.

June 2, 1998. Parrillada el Gaucho Steakhouse, Miramar, California.

"I don't want a  kids menu," Nick said defiantly, looking up at the waitress.   
"All right, little man," the waitress said cheerfully. "I like a guy that knows what he wants." She tweaked his nose, handed him an adult menu and departed.   
Charlie cleared her throat. "Nick, sweetheart, do you know what it means when two people get divorced?"   
Maverick put aside his beer and steepled his fingers.   
"Yeah," Nick told her. "Shelby's parents got divorced when she was in second grade. She lives at both their houses. She said when they got divorced they bought her a puppy." He flicked his eyes between them. "Can  we  get a puppy?"   
"No," Maverick told him.   
"We can talk about it," Charlie said.   
Maverick felt guilt radiating from her as she shifted in her seat and picked invisible lint off her blouse.   
"Nick, your mother and I haven't been happy for a long time," he said.   
"It has nothing to do with you, I promise," Charlie added quickly.   
"No, of course not, we're not saying it does."   
Nick took a sip of his root beer. "I don't get it," he said.   
"Nick, honey," Charlie said. "I might be moving to Washington."   
"But why?" Nick said, glancing back and forth, unsure of who to listen to. "Mom, you live here. Why would you leave?"   
"Your father and I aren't going to live together anymore."   
"But  why ?" Nick demanded, and Maverick sensed his son's temper rising.   
"We're in the process of becoming legally separated, and your mother's filed for divorce," Maverick said shortly.   
"But -" Nick's dark blond brow furrowed over his green eyes. "Why can't you stay here?" he asked Charlie.   
"I can't afford to live away from your father unless I take a job in D.C.," she told him quietly.   
"Where am I gonna live?" Nick said.   
"With one of us," Maverick told him.   
"Which one?"   
"Whoever you choose," Charlie said.   
Maverick felt the bottom drop out of his heart. He put his palms face-up on the table and stared at the grain of the wood.   
"We'll figure it out when the time is right," Charlie added. "We have to take into account what's best for you. The courts may not want you to stay with me until I've closed escrow on a house, and my hours will be long, and they may not want you to stay with your father if he's an unfit parent."   
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Maverick snapped, forgetting his son was even there. Charlie glared at him.   
"Figure it out," she told him.   
Maverick got up and strode away from the table. He left the restaurant and stepped outside into the balmy night, letting out a breath and closing a fist around his dog tags.

June 6, 1998. United States Navy Fighter Weapons School, Miramar, California.

Maverick liked how footsteps sounded on the battleship linoleum floors.   
That was all he focused on as he made his way to Iceman's office, slipped in the door, and closed it behind him.   
Iceman looked up from his computer, and Maverick's eyes trailed across his face. He noticed for the first time that his hair was graying at the temples, slightly, and there were dark circles under his eyes.   
Maverick didn't say anything as he closed the blinds and stepped toward his desk.   
"Mitchell, what's this about?"   
Maverick unzipped his flight suit and let it drop to the floor. He ran a hand through his hair.   
Iceman cleared his throat and stood up. "Mitchell -"   
"What's the matter, Iceman?" Maverick said, stepping forward, wearing only boxers. He locked eyes with Iceman. "You don't still find me attractive? Don't still want to fuck  me?"   
Iceman's left hand twitched. "I told you I'm not coming in between you and your marriage, I told you -"   
"You already did, Kazansky," Maverick said. "You've been coming in between us for  years ."   
"I'm not taking responsibility for your personal fuck-ups," Iceman snapped, coming out from behind his desk. Maverick stepped forward, grabbed handfuls of him like he'd disappear at any second, and pulled Iceman toward him. At first he resisted, but Maverick's grip tightened, and he stared defiantly up at Iceman, daring him to stay, daring him to go.   
Iceman met his lips and Maverick slipped up against him, tugging at his zipper. Iceman stumbled backward, taking Maverick with him, and onto his desk, knocking papers aside. A manila envelope dropped to the floor and resumes fluttered out. Maverick's knee slipped between Iceman's thighs and found him, hard as a rock, as he gasped against Maverick's chest.   
" God , I missed you," Maverick muttered, drawing his lips over Iceman's neck, up to his jaw, pulling his zipper down farther and ripping at his flight suit, tearing it away from his body. There was a scar across his chest, a shrapnel wound curving under one nipple and slashing over his uppermost rib. Maverick ran his fingers across the raised, harsh skin. Iceman twisted underneath him, his hips sliding just right against Maverick's crotch.   
"Mitchell," Iceman moaned, "just, just -"   
"What?" Maverick panted, grinding against him again as he pinned Iceman's wrist to the desk. That time he managed to twist just right, writhe just hard enough, and orgasm thrilled through his veins. He collapsed into Iceman's form, hand falling to Iceman's crotch and finding he had beat him to it.   
"Stop," Iceman told him. "Just stop."   
Maverick rested his head against Iceman's chest and held him close, heart pounding in his chest.   
"Here," Iceman said, handing him a handkerchief, and Maverick cleaned up as best he could, pulling his flight suit back on and taking a deep breath. He pushed his hair away from his face and Iceman rubbed at his face, at the red teeth marks that lined his jaw.   
There was a knock at the door. They looked at each other.   
"Come in," Iceman said, clearing his throat.   
"I was just - oh, excuse me, Commander," a flustered-looking young ensign said.   
"No, it's all right," Maverick muttered. "I was just leaving."   
"No, you weren't," Iceman said cheerfully. "Was there something you needed?" he addressed the ensign.   
"Uh, just the, uh, transfer orders for -"   
Iceman nodded, rifled through his desk, and handed them to him. The door closed again. Iceman's eyes swiveled to Maverick.   
Maverick folded his arms. Something like shame was running through him, but something like relief was running beside it. For the first time in a long time, he felt alive.   
"Can we talk about this later?" Maverick said hoarsely. "I have a class."   
"I don't think we should talk about this at all," Iceman replied.   
Anger flushed high in his cheeks. " That's fucking typical," Maverick snapped.   
"Listen, Mitchell," Iceman said. "You're in a bad place right now. I heard about your divorce. You come in here and  accost me -"   
"You didn't have to -"   
" Lis ten," Iceman repeated. He sighed and rubbed his temples.   
"Don't tell me how I feel," Maverick said. "I'm not a kid, Kazansky, I'm thirty-eight years old, for Christ's sake, I  know what I want."   
Iceman stared at the ceiling.   
"I have a class," Maverick told him, again, and left.

June 11, 1998. Miramar, California.

"Most often, custody is awarded to the primary caregiver," said Beverly Billington. "Which is the mother, about ninety percent of the time."   
Maverick's lawyer - an almost comically inexperienced young guy from the Doyle, Doyle & O'Connell firm, named Ned Naderman - looked nervously from Charlie to Maverick and cleared his throat. "If it's made, we'll fight that decision in court."   
"Oh, will you?" Charlie said, sounding slightly amused.   
"In any case, Nick's well-being should always come first," Beverly added.   
"Of course," Maverick muttered, drumming his fingers on the mahogany tabletop.   
"Miss Blackwood would like to settle as much as possible out of court," Beverly told them. "I'm sure everyone here agrees it would be in the best interest of all parties involved not to drag this out any longer than necessary."   
"I plan to fight for my son," Maverick said. His voice cracked a little and he sat up and looked Charlie right in the eye. "I'm completely willing to take you to court. For as long as necessary."   
Charlie's gaze dropped, and he felt an overwhelming sense of loss, that he had stood by this woman and loved her for a decade - and now she could barely look at him.   
"Well," Beverely said, glancing between them. "We'll work that out later, won't we?"   
June 13, 1998. Ruth's Chris Steakhouse. Miramar, California.   
Maverick felt like it was his first date again, like he was fifteen, waiting for Iceman to walk in.   
He had asked Iceman to join him - "just a casual dinner, so we can talk business," he claimed at the time, but they both knew that couldn't be closer to bullshit - at this expensive-as-hell steakhouse on the coast, even though his wallet was on its last legs paying for a divorce lawyer who was probably going to wind up losing him his house, his son, and his 401K.   
But somewhere inside of him there was a daring, reckless piece of happiness, because Iceman hadn't said no to him. And he hadn't refused to touch him, that day in his office. For the first time in years, he was remembering what it was like to be  wanted , to want somebody back.   
He was looking around, adjusting his tie, blinking up at the crystal chandeliers dangling forty feet above him, when Iceman walked in.   
Maverick's chest clenched. Iceman looked  good in a suit. He looked tired and a little jetlagged, almost, but he looked good.   
Maverick waved him over. Iceman took his time like he always did, moving quietly through the maze of candle-lit four-seater tables.   
"Interesting restaurant you pick to talk  business in," Iceman said drily, sitting down.   
"You wore civvies."   
"So did you."   
They eyed each other for a moment. The waiter came over and Maverick ordered a Miller Lite and Iceman ordered a foreign, German-sounding import, Schliemengorben or something to that effect.   
The way Iceman's lips closed around the mouth of the bottle made Maverick's stomach twist in a way that wasn't entirely unpleasant. He cleared his throat and accidentally knocked his frosted glass over; Iceman tilted his head at him like he was trying to get a better angle.   
"Flustered?" Iceman said, a grin gracing his lips. Maverick realized it was the first time he'd seen him  really  smile since the whole encounter with the Russian MiGs, when they were back on the ground and Hollywood was hugging anybody he could get his hands on.   
"I like your suit," Maverick blurted out.   
"So do I."   
"You always were shit at taking a compliment, Kazansky."   
Iceman chuckled. "Why am I here, Mitchell?" he said, sobering and fixing Maverick with a stare.   
Maverick fiddled with his tie. "Just wanted to talk."   
"We can talk  anywhere , but I'm paying a hundred and fifty dollars for a mediocre steak and the pleasure of your company."   
Maverick was quiet.   
"Unless we're on a  date -"   
"Hell no!" Maverick said, so loudly that a few nearby couples spun in their seats and looked at him in alarm. "No," he said, more quietly.   
" - in which case I'd be paying  three hundred dollars for two mediocre steaks and the plea -"   
"Like I'd let you pay for dinner!"   
Iceman grinned again. "All right,  Mav erick. Let's talk about something else."   
"We could talk about your time in the Pacific," Maverick said, bluntly.   
The grin melted away. Iceman gave him a Mona Lisa glare - angry mouth, dead eyes. Maverick half expected him to get up and walk out, but he just said, "What about it?"   
"Like what happened?"   
"A lot of things happened. It was war."   
"Where?"   
"Hell - Panama, Afghanistan. I was serving my country, Mitchell."   
Maverick didn't like the way he said that. "I have been, too."   
"Never said you weren't."   
Maverick sighed and took a sip of his beer. Iceman folded his arms.   
"How's your divorce going?"   
Maverick felt his other hand curl into a fist.  Man , did Iceman know how to push his buttons.   
"Fucking fine, thanks," he said coolly.   
"You know," Iceman said, "All those years... I did kind of miss having someone to beat."   
Maverick's finger drew tight little circles on the neck of his beer.   
"It's pretty damn pathetic, but TOPGUN was probably the highlight of my life."   
Maverick glanced down at his lap. "No, it's not pathetic," he said quietly. "I feel the same way."   
He flashed Iceman a little smile. They locked eyes.   
"Where's our damn waiter?" Iceman said, breaking the moment, and Maverick let out the breath he'd been holding in.

June 13, 1998. Miramar, California.

"You're home a little late," said Sherry, tilting her head as Maverick came in the door.   
Sherry Sherwood had been the Mitchell's babysitter for years now, and Maverick sometimes thought she knew his son better than he did. She hadn't mentioned the divorce to him yet, not outright, instead choosing to fill their small talk with things like grad school tuition and the weather, but he knew a small part of her was disappointed in him, in both of them, for not being able to make it work.   
"Did you put Nick to bed?" Maverick said, pulling out his wallet.   
"Yeah. Rate's ten more, for the extra hour I stayed," she said pointedly. He handed her two twenties.   
"Thanks. Have a good night."   
"You too," Maverick said, and headed upstairs, unbuttoning his collar and loosening his tie. He stopped off in Nick's room.   
"Hi, Dad," Nick muttered.   
"Hey."   
"Who were you with?"   
Maverick paused in the doorway. "Uh, an, um - a colleague," he said.   
Nick's forehead creased, reminding Maverick irrepressibly of Charlie.   
"Okay," he said. "Night."   
"Good night," Maverick muttered, and closed the door behind him.   
There was no reason to feel guilty, he thought, as he walked down the hall and into his lonely tomb of a bedroom. No reason in the world. It was just dinner. Not sex, not chaste, stolen kisses, not even mutual whacking off, just dinner.   
He was guilty anyway, of course.

June 14, 1998. United States Navy Fighter Weapons School, Miramar, California.

"You look happy," Jester told him.   
They were sitting in the officer's lounge, as it was called, really just a standard-issue room where the instructors and the higher-ups came to smoke and have lunch between hops.   
"Is that a problem?" Maverick replied, a little harshly, because Jester's face was twisted in suspicion.   
"A problem? No, I just think it's a little strange, is all. Considering the circumstances."   
"Circumstances - listen, Commander, I don't see how  my circumstances are  your concern."   
Maverick was half out of his seat, now, and there was an edge in his voice. Jester stared him down.   
Someone cleared their throat and Maverick turned. Iceman was standing there, a coffee in his hand, steam rising from the mouth of the cup.   
"Mind if I join you?" he said, sounding a little amused.   
"Yeah," Maverick said. He sat down again.   
"I just thought maybe you found yourself a girlfriend or something," Jester said.   
Maverick shook his head. "No."   
"Well, you see it all the time," Jester said, taking a bite of his sandwich. "Guy's wife leaves him - no disrespect intended, Commander, guy's wife leaves him, his pride's shattered, he runs off with some twenty-year old twinkie -"   
Iceman chuckled. "Twenty-year old  twinkie ," he repeated with a smirk.   
Maverick snarled something unintelligible in his direction.   
Jester glanced between them. His brow furrowed.   
"Anyway," Iceman said. "This year's recruits - really, you couldn't do any better?"   
"We get who we get," Jester said. "The best of the best."   
There was a note of irony in his voice.   
"They're just young," Maverick said.   
"Young and stupid."   
"Because you've always been such a great judge of character, Kazansky."   
Iceman let that one slide. He fixed Maverick with a stare and Maverick felt heat spread from the arches of his feet up through his face, his cheeks flushing under fluorescent lights. He waited for Jester to deliver the blow, to let them know in plain language he knew exactly what was going on, but all he did was stand, toss his trash away and stride out of the room.   
Maverick stared at the table. Shame welled in his stomach. He was thinking about last night, about how Iceman had paid for dinner and whispered dirty, pretty things in his ear, and how he had gone home and slept in the bed he shared with his wife for years. For ten years.   
He looked up and Iceman gave him one of his shark-like smiles, all flashing white teeth and broad black pupils.   
"I'll see you later," Maverick said. "After their hop." He got up.   
"Hold on, Mitchell," Iceman said. "You're always running off somewhere."   
But Maverick was hard, and his breath was hitching. All he wanted was to jerk one off in the privacy of the bathroom. "I'll see you later," he said again, and traipsed out after Jester, ignoring Iceman's eyes on the back of his neck.

June 16, 1998. Miramar, California.

Maverick squinted at the bill from his divorce lawyer.   
"Three grand," he muttered, " three grand ..." He knocked the cap off the beer next to him on the counter and took a long swig. "Gotta be fucking kidding me."   
He gathered the rest of the mail and tossed it onto the kitchen table. California sunlight was dancing in through the wide bay window of their living room, and Maverick stared into it, caught up in a fantasy of Iceman laying him down in bed - no, not the bed - the floor, maybe? one hand underneath his hips, and sliding a finger -   
"Hey, Dad."   
Maverick turned around and quickly smoothed his expression. "Something the matter?"   
"I have a headache," Nick whined.   
"Probably allergies," Maverick replied. He absent-mindedly shook two pills into his hand, and poured Nick a glass of milk.   
"Thanks. Um, hey, Danny Costello got a dirt bike yesterday," Nick said, lingering in the doorway, wearing a hopeful expression.   
"Your birthday's not for months, we'll talk about it then," Maverick told him automatically.   
"Fine," Nick said, swallowing the pill with a mouthful of milk, making a face, and disappearing.   
Maverick was lost for a few minutes, doing calculations in his head, wondering if he could balance his checkbook if he paid Ned right away. Math had never been his strong point, something Jester mocked him for on a regular basis.   
He jerked out of his thoughts when he heard a strangled choking sound from the other room. Fragments flashed through his head - maybe the cat swallowed another pen cap? - but then he heard a thud on the parquet floor and he ran into the living room, knowing no cat could make that sound, smashing his knee against the coffee table, yelling his son's name.   
Nick was on his hands and knees, gagging and gasping for air. There was a bright red rash spreading across his neck.   
"Nick - shit! Can you breathe? Talk to me,  talk to me ," Maverick begged, and then he leapt up again and ran for the kitchen, dialing the nearest phone, rummaging through the cabinets. He pulled out the nearest bottle of pills, the ones he had given to Nick, and looked more closely at the label. His heart stopped.   
"911, what is your emergency?"   
"My son took aspirin," Maverick said, "he's uh, high - highly allergic, I -" he stared at the bottle. "Never mind, don't - don't send an ambulance, I'll bring him in myself," and he was throwing the phone down and running back into the living room.   
Nick was slumped on the floor and Maverick seized him, recalling his cadet training, and desperately looking for his pulse as he picked him up and kicked the garage door open. Nick's little silver medical bracelet jangled on his wrist - how the  fuck did he forget? But the two bottles were right next to each other in the cabinet -   
A little voice murmured in the back of his head,  He's going to die in your arms just like Goose did, you son of a bitch.   
Maverick let out a choked cry and laid him down across the back, fell into the driver's seat, and slammed on the accelerator.

June 16, 1998. Seton Coastside Hospital, Miramar, California.

Everything after that was a blur of white paper gowns, tubes being shoved down Nick's throat and the pale faces of concerned, hovering nurses, pressing Dixie cups of water into his hands, assuring him that the doctors would pump his son's stomach and take care of him just fine if he'd sit down and relax and is there anyone you want to call?   
Maverick did wind up calling Charlie, and stuttering out some half-assed explanation. She didn't scream at him, not over the phone, anyway, and made it to the hospital in under an hour, having been in town meeting with (who else) Beverly Billington.   
When she did get there, the first thing she said to him was, "Is he okay?" and the second was a long string of curses and epithets and accusations.   
Numb as he was, Maverick only managed to be slightly surprised that the uptight, classy Charlie was bawling him out in front of all these people.   
She was as pale as he was, though, and only when a doctor came out and told them that Nick was breathing on his own now did the color begin to return to her face. Maverick's hands were shaking violently, and continued to shake as he got a Snickers from the vending machine - by then they'd been there for hours.   
When he got back to the cluster of chairs outside Nick's room, he mistook her silence for a truce and said quietly, "Maybe I'll call Carol, she can bring over some flowers and cards and stuff, unless you want me to -"   
"I want you out of this hospital."   
Her voice was a pillar of ice.   
Maverick paused and stared. "Excuse me?"   
"You heard me, Pete. I want you out of here. I'm taking him with me when he gets discharged. School's out for the summer, I reserved a hotel room in town. I'm taking him with me, and I want you gone."   
"You can't do that."   
"Watch me. And this -" Charlie waved her hand at her surroundings. "This is going to be the keystone of my custody battle."   
"I'm not an unfit father," Maverick said. He felt like he was falling.   
"You almost killed my son."   
"It was an  accident  \- you have no idea how  guilty  I feel -" Maverick's throat closed up, and he couldn't say any more.   
"An accident," Charlie repeated, searing him with her blue eyes. "An  accident . You - why do you even have aspirin in the  house?"   
"I get headaches," Maverick snapped.   
"You get headaches."   
"Yeah."   
"Get out of here. Please. Just get out."   
"I'm not going."   
"I'll have you escorted out by security."   
Maverick ran a hand through his hair.   
"If you go home now -" she sighed. "I'll call you and let you know how he's doing, I promise. But please, please get out."   
He was no longer shaking as he turned on his heel and headed toward the hospital parking lot.

June 16, 1998. Miramar, California.

It was late, near midnight but not quite there, when the doorbell rang.   
Maverick ignored it. He was lying on his couch, staring at the ceiling as the shadows crept in, fingers clutching an empty bottle of beer. His hair was messy and sweaty and sticking to his forehead slightly.   
The doorbell was more insistent. Maverick sighed and got up.   
"If this is - oh, hey," Maverick said. "Kazansky." He tugged his shirt down where it had ridden up over his abs.   
Rain was pouring down around Iceman in turrets, but he didn't seem to notice. He was clutching a bouquet of flowers in his right hand and there was a look in his eyes that Maverick barely recognized.   
"Hey," Iceman muttered. "Eagle, uh, from TOPGUN called me, said your kid was in the hospital -"   
Maverick leaned on the doorway. He stared at Iceman's lips for a moment and then tilted his gaze upward. "Thanks." He took the flowers from Iceman. "Little late, isn't it?"   
Iceman drummed his fingers. "Yeah, well... Special circumstances. So... you gonna invite me in or what, Mitchell?"   
Maverick stepped back, but only a foot or so. "Maybe."   
"Maybe." Iceman was grinning at him, now, infuriatingly. "Maybe?"   
"It's  late  -"   
Iceman fisted a handful of his shirt and pulled him up and in for a kiss. Maverick's chest tightened. Iceman's tongue was spilling, twisting, into his mouth, and his hands were needy and tugging at Maverick, groping and grabbing him.   
Maverick seized Iceman by the collar and let out a long breath, holding his jaw in both hands, kissing him urgently.   
The flowers fell to the floor, forgotten.   
Iceman nuzzled Maverick, breath catching in his throat, hands everywhere, still, and murmured "upstairs" to him. Maverick nodded, head against Iceman's chest.   
There was weak lightning as they came up the stairs, and then - Maverick counted the beats - a clap of thunder. Iceman twined his fingers in Maverick's and turned back, tilting his head like the Victrola dog. More lightning lit the windows.   
Maverick's hand went to the crook of Iceman's elbow and he pushed him forward, kissing him. Iceman moaned against his lips and one hand went to the back of Maverick's neck, and the other went to his ass, and Maverick pushed him some more into the bedroom and onto the bed, which creaked under their sudden combined weight.   
He straddled Iceman and started undoing his buttons, one by one, fingers fumbling. Iceman took his hands and pushed them away and dragged him down to the bed, wrestled him onto his back and pinned him there, sliding a leg between his thighs. Maverick snarled at him, bucked his hips up and buried his face in Iceman's clavicle, licking the underside of his jaw. He nudged at Iceman's hand, who seemed to remember why they were in bed in the first place, and he began to slide Maverick's jeans off his hips while laying soft kisses on the side of his face. Maverick shifted underneath him, pushing at Iceman's solid, broad shoulders and letting out a little gasp when he rubbed himself in the exact right place.   
"Hurry up,"  Maverick whimpered. "Tom -"   
Iceman spilled a little lube onto his fingers from the bottle he had hastily swiped off of the dresser and drove his fingers into Maverick, who clutched a fistful of bedsheets and rolled onto his stomach. He groaned as Iceman slid into him, pushing him down against the bed, and pulled a knee up to his chest, twisting and squirming in the sweaty sheets as he came, breathing out a few jumbled syllables. Maverick caught a glimpse of him in the mirror beside the bed as he arched his back. Iceman's eyes were wide and bright and dark in the moonlight, pupils large and cheeks flushed. He swore as he came and Maverick felt Ice's pulse rabbit when he wrapped a hand around Maverick's dick, though he was already long gone as far as orgasm was concerned.   
Maverick slipped down and tugged Iceman to him, pulling his pants the rest of the way off and tossing them in a corner so that they were facing each other stark naked. He closed his eyes and Iceman drew a thumb over the fan of Maverick's eyelashes on his cheek.   
"Hey," Maverick murmured. "Commander."   
Iceman wrapped an arm around him and rested his chin on Maverick's shoulder, and that was how they fell asleep.

June 17, 1998. Miramar, California.

Maverick wasn't sure what woke him, the sirens or the scream. The sirens were distant and the scream was a foot away so if he was any kind of a betting man, he'd put his money on the latter - but he would never know for sure.   
It wasn't the kind of screaming you hear when you go to a horror movie, not the self-conscious, high-pitched kind. It was low and guttural and pained.   
Maverick sat straight up and already had his hand wrapped around the base of the bedside table lamp, preparing to bash in someone's head before he realized it was just Iceman, who was now up, wandering to the bathroom, looking almost abashed. Maverick watched him lean over the sink and douse his face with cold water.   
"What the hell was  that ?"   
"What was what?" Iceman said, strolling back into the room. There was a familiar swagger in his step, but his face was chalk-white, and he kept looking around like a spooked horse.   
"That - are you okay?"   
"Nightmare," Iceman grunted.   
"What nightma -"   
The sirens in the distance died off. Maverick stared at him.   
"I..." Iceman looked at the ceiling. The fan was spinning idly. "When I hear ambulances, sometimes I -" he broke off again and ran a hand through his dark blond hair. "It brings up stuff. Bad stuff."   
His tone was incredibly curt, like he and Maverick were strangers who had just bumped into each other on the bus.   
"Bad stuff. Like what?"   
"Oh, blow me, Mitchell."   
"I'm just asking," Maverick snapped.   
Iceman sat down on the edge of the bed. Maverick watched the muscles in his back ripple as he sighed.   
"I was stationed somewhere off the coast of Turkey and our aircraft carrier got bombed. It was bad."   
"How bad?"   
"Bad," Iceman said. Maverick knew not to push it.   
"Is that where you -"   
Iceman turned and grazed the shrapnel scar across his chest. "This? No."   
He didn't elaborate.   
Maverick checked his watch. "It's two-thirty," he said. "You have a class tomorrow?"   
Iceman shook his head.   
"I'm going back to sleep, then," Maverick said, rubbing his temples and sinking back onto his pillow. He glanced at the nightstand. Next to the lamp, there was a photo of him, Nick, and Charlie. They were all smiling.   
He slammed it face-down on the table and rolled over. A moment later, the bed creaked again and Iceman lay beside him.

June 17, 1998. Miramar, California.

Maverick stumbled out of the bathroom, still half-asleep after taking the first piss of the day to find Iceman smirking at him from his seat in the armchair that was next to what was formerly Charlie's dresser.   
"Morning," Maverick muttered. Iceman was already fully dressed and shaved and it was only, what, seven thirty? You could really get to hate a guy like that.   
"Morning," Iceman replied. "Listen..."   
Maverick pulled a shirt on. "Yeah?"   
"I'll cover your afternoon class for you, if you wanted to go see your kid in the hospital," Iceman said. "Your hop, too."   
"How gentlemanly of you," Maverick said, as he did his fly.   
"Just an offer," Iceman said gruffly. "No need to..." he made a slightly rude hand gesture.   
Maverick rolled his eyes, seizing a bottle of cologne and spraying it all over his throat as he stuffed his browns into a duffel so he could change when he got to TOPGUN.   
"I like those jeans," Iceman said, voice husky.   
"Yeah?"   
"They have a little hole in the ass. C'mere."   
Maverick obliged and Iceman pulled him onto his lap, sliding a finger into the hole and fingering Maverick lightly. He nudged Maverick's neck with his lips and drew them up the side of his face. Maverick shifted his weight and he felt Iceman's dick throb gently against him.   
Iceman slid his finger out of the frayed hole and ran it down Maverick's thigh. Maverick sucked in a tight little breath and grabbed Iceman by the wrist. "Stop. I gotta - morning class."   
"Fine. I need to go home and change, anyway."   
Neither of them moved. Iceman's hand was in a very inappropriate place.   
Suddenly he stood up and Maverick slipped off his lap. Iceman squeezed his shoulder. "I'll see you later, then."   
"Yeah," Maverick said. He glanced at Iceman, who was wearing that frustrated I-really-want-to-have-sex-with-you- right-now-goddamnit  look that he knew so well.   
"Cologne's a little strong," said Iceman, and he strode out of the room.

June 17, 1998. United States Navy Fighter Weapons School, Miramar, California.

"I'd like to speak with you, Commander."   
Maverick waved his hand vaguely. "One second."   
Jester shut the door behind him.   
"Can we talk in the hall?" Maverick said, getting up and shuffling his stack of papers. "I have to deliver these, to, uh -"   
"Langley?"   
"Yeah."   
"Fine," Jester said. His tones were more clipped than usual. He held the door open for Maverick.   
"I got the JAG Corps all over me about this court-martial," Maverick said. "And, uh, I'm gonna be slipping out today for a while to see my son, around two o'clock. Kazansky's taking my class."   
"That's what I wanted to talk to you about."   
"What?"   
"Kazansky."   
Maverick's mouth twitched. Jester stared pointedly at him.   
"Listen, I don't know what kind of fuckin' adulterous, summer of my German soldier bullshit you two are pulling, but it's going to stop. I won't stand for it."   
"You can't prove anything," Maverick said. He clenched his fist around the paperwork. " Damnit, Heatherly!"   
"Now, you look. No, look at me." Jester nudged Maverick's chin with his knuckle and Maverick slapped his hand away. "There's a reason we have regulations. There's a reason we got DADT, son. We -"   
"Don't you  dare call me  son!  I  outrank you, you lying piece of shit!"   
People in nearby offices stared. Maverick tried to get his breathing under control.   
"And don't you start fucking shrieking at me," Jester hissed. "I'm looking out for your best interest."   
"How would you even know -"   
"You're walking around here with your neck bit up to hell and back, you think I'm not gonna notice? Especially after that little recital you two put on the other day. You're not even divorced  yet, Commander, have some goddamn respect."   
Jester strode away.   
Maverick watched him go and suddenly found himself craving a cigarette.   
He had picked up smoking years ago, when his marriage had first started to fall apart and Charlie had begun accusing him of everything from having a short man's complex to daddy issues to emotional neglect. He had only stopped when a little five-year-old Nick came to him, teary-eyed and sniffling, and asked Maverick if he was going to live to see him graduate high school. Nicotine patches had done the trick, but nothing could ever wipe you clean. There was always that urge.   
Maverick turned and walked back to his office.

June 17, 1998. Seton Coastside Hospital, Miramar, California.

The PTA had obviously done its job. Maybe with a phone tree or two. Nick's room was soaked in flowers and balloons, cards signed by the entire fourth grade class.   
"Hey," Maverick said quietly.   
Nick stirred in his sleep and rolled over. "Dad." He looked pale.   
Maverick sat on his bedside. "Hey," he repeated, more quietly. "How you doing?"   
"I'm okay," Nick said. "Sally Netherfield and her brother came to see me. Their mom brought a duck."   
"A  stuffed duck, right?"   
"Yeah." Nick made a face. "Dad, I think Sally  likes me."   
Maverick smiled. "Do you like her?"   
"Are you kidding? Girls are weird ," Nick said.   
"How come?"   
"They laugh too much."   
"You get used to it."   
"You didn't," Nick said. It took Maverick a second to get that one.   
"Nick, I still love your mother very much," he said, staring at the wall across from him. "We're having a tough time right now. We still love you  very much," Maverick added, squeezing Nick's shoulder, and thinking suddenly of Iceman.   
"What if she moves away and she takes me and I never see you again?"   
Nick's eyes were damp. Maverick had never quite realized how much Nick resembled him until then.   
"I promise that won't happen."   
"What if it does?"   
"Do you want to stay with me or her?"   
"I want both," Nick said. His voice wavered and he pressed his hand to his mouth.   
Maverick just sighed.

June 22, 1998. United States Navy Fighter Weapons School, Miramar, California.

"She's got a pretty good case."   
"I'd say so, yeah," Maverick said, tipping the phone away from his face as he mouthed "turkey" at the ensign who was running around taking lunch orders. "I'm not giving up, though."   
"Oh, no, of course not," Ned said nervously. "I just - we should restructure your defense as more of a, how much will it hurt this kid to move across the country, et cetera, and we can pull up some statistics - you know. I mean, if she stays here, you have almost no case, I'll be honest with you, Commander. You don't exactly have the greatest -"   
"I've been an  excellent father to my son," Maverick growled, cutting across him. Whether it was true or not was inconsequential. Law was all about what you could or couldn't prove - quality of anything was a sticking point.   
"Oh, of course, sir. Nothing less was implied, sir. I just meant -"   
"Hey, Ned, I'll speak with you later, all right?" Maverick said. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Jester stroll up to Iceman's office and knock on the glass door. He slammed the phone down before Ned could respond and made his way down the hall.   
Maverick stood there, watching. Iceman was not an easy guy to read, even for someone who ran on gut instinct and intuition the way Maverick did. His emotions were a crater at the bottom of the ocean that radar passed over. But he was bristling now, anyone could see, leaning on his desk with one hand, fingers drumming faster and faster. If he had a pen in his hand Maverick was sure he would be fiddling with it.   
Jester seemed almost apologetic. He looked old and tired, but at the same time something about him was slightly defiant. Defiance didn't sit well with Iceman.   
Maverick tried to read their lips. All of a sudden someone ran into him.   
"Sorry, sir -"   
"Oh, Lieutenant Padgett," Maverick said, righting himself. "Christ, watch where you're going," he said off-handedly, helping him reshuffle his papers.   
"Sorry, sorry," Harvey said. He looked haggard. "Sir, I, um, I actually wanted to talk to you."   
"Go ahead," Maverick said, eyes fixed on Iceman's office.   
"I was just wondering if I'm - do you think, I mean -"   
Something about his stuttering reminded Maverick of Ned-Naderman-the-divorce-attorney and he chuckled. Harvey looked slightly stricken.   
"I'm sorry, please continue, Lieutenant," Maverick said. Iceman's hand was no longer on the desk, but had moved to his hip. That meant trouble. Maverick stared intently at Harvey in an attempt to move the conversation along.   
"I just... do you really think I'm cut out for this?" he burst out desperately.   
"Cut out for -" Maverick was puzzled. "You wouldn't be here if you weren't."   
"You really think so?" Harvey looked immensely relieved.   
"You've  got talent," Maverick said. "It's just a matter of -"   
Jester closed the space between himself and Iceman.   
"- confidence," Maverick said as he walked away.   
"Thank you, sir," Harvey called out.   
The door closed behind him and the double gaze of Iceman and Jester hit him like a pillowcase full of bricks.   
"Afternoon," Maverick said sharply.   
"Afternoon," said Iceman in an odd tone. "Heatherly and I were just discussing -"   
"Things," Jester said, and his eyes darted between them.   
Iceman sat. A muscle in his jaw twitched.   
"Of course," Maverick said.   
Iceman's hand closed around a pen.   
"I was just saying to Kazansky - it may not be wise -"   
Iceman leapt cat-like out of his seat and grabbed Jester by the collar. He was surprisingly agile for a guy of forty. "Listen, Heatherly. I keep to myself. I don't go around opening my mouth -" he shot a look at Maverick "- and I don't see any reason for you to be coming into my office like this -"   
"I'm just giving you the facts, Kazansky," Jester said, but he suddenly looked uneasy.   
"Well," Iceman replied, and released him.   
"I'll be seeing the both of you," Jester said, nodding curtly at Maverick as he left.   
"Like I  do go around opening my mouth?" he snapped, as soon as the office door had shut.   
Iceman shook his head and smiled slightly. He walked over to Maverick and closed the blinds behind him.   
"You want to go sailing with me, say, maybe a week from now?"   
"Sailing?" Maverick replied.   
"My uncle left me a boat when he died," Iceman said. "A little twenty-five footer. Keep it in the San Diego marina. I went out the other day and cleared away all the seaweed and shit, got it running again. You want to?"   
"Is it a date?" Maverick blurted out.   
Iceman smirked. "No more a date than your little -"   
"I don't - Christ, that wasn't a date, I  told you -"   
"Don't get all excited, Mitchell. I was just asking."   
"Yeah, sure," Maverick said. "I - sure."   
Iceman rolled up his sleeves. "Thursday good?"   
"I don't have a class."   
"That's why I asked."   
Maverick nodded and made a move toward the door.   
"I wouldn't worry about Heatherly," Iceman said. "He was a little riled. Seems you called him some, uh, unpleasant names."   
Maverick made a non-committal noise.   
"But I calmed him down."   
"Okay."   
"You're welcome."   
"Thank you."   
Iceman grinned. "Bring a case of beer with you. And none of that light shit. The good stuff."   
Maverick nodded again, and slipped out of the office.

June 25, 1998. San Diego Marina. San Diego, California.

Maverick didn't like the ocean a whole lot.   
He  tried  to - hell, you join the Navy, you live in California for twelve years, you're gonna try, right? He'd just always liked the air better.   
He passed by a little ship chandler on his way to he found Iceman, tugging on some rigging, shirtless and ripped. Maverick had a little niggle of insecurity. Sure, he worked out, and he looked damn good for his age, but he  had spent the majority of his time lately behind a desk. And Iceman had - actually, who knew what the fuck Iceman had been doing all those years, but it probably didn't even involve a desk.   
"Hey," Maverick called. Iceman looked up, gave him a little sarcastic salute, tossed a rope across the nearest cleat and pulled the boat closer. Maverick stumbled on.   
"Impressive sea legs," Iceman said dryly.   
"Fuck off," Maverick said, swaying. "I'm fine on aircraft carriers, okay? It's little - dinky... these kind of things I don't like. Here's your beer."   
"Bud Light?"   
"If you don't like it -" Maverick stood up. "Don't drink it."   
"Watch out for the boom," Iceman said, cracking the top off of one on the side of the boat, taking a swig, and making a face.   
The boom swung toward Maverick's head idly, and he ducked.   
"See, you're lucky, Thumbelina," Iceman said. "I have to hit the deck every time it comes by."   
"We going?" Maverick replied.   
Iceman nodded affably. "You know, you look... well, like shit, to be honest."   
"Go take a hike in a fucking lake."   
This raised Maverick's hackles because it hit a nerve recently exposed by his doctor - who, upon noting his dark circles and generally harried appearance, compounded with his blood pressure - apparently in the same range as that of a five-hundred pound chain-smoking lumberjack who subsisted solely on waffles and NSAID pain relievers - had suggested he see a shrink.   
Maverick had said no, in not entirely polite terms.   
His doctor had simply smiled and said, "Many people, during divorces, find themselves seeking an unbiased third party to unload their concerns onto."   
"I don't need to unload anything," Maverick had replied.   
"You're very stressed."   
"I tend to get stressed when people tell me I need to see a shrink."   
The doctor had thrown his hands in the air in surrender. "Fine. Just my professional opinion."   
"You tracking, Mitchell?"   
"Yeah," Maverick said, snapping back to reality. Iceman twiddled the tiller.   
"So how's your kid?"   
"He's doing all right," Maverick said. "Staying with, um, Charlie now." He fiddled with a length of rope lying next to him. "I think it's probably better that way."   
Iceman smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. He leaned back, laced his fingers, and slid them behind his head. "You really believe that?"   
"I've been busy lately," Maverick said. It sounded bullshit even to him.   
"You giving up on your own son, then?" Iceman said.   
"Christ," Maverick replied. "I never said that."   
"Sounds like it."   
"It's not," Maverick snapped.   
Iceman tilted his head. Maverick sighed.   
"It's very hard for me to fight Charlie," he said finally.   
"I'd imagine," Iceman said.   
"Don't mock me."   
Iceman rolled his eyes.   
"Can we change the subject?"   
"Who'd you vote for?"   
"Nader."   
Iceman raised his eyebrows.   
Maverick took a sip of his beer. "I would have gone for Dole, but I mean, Nader wrote that book about seat belts."   
"Uh-huh."   
"You?"   
"Clinton."   
"Maybe we shouldn't talk politics," Maverick said.   


-

  
After a few beers each, they were pretty tipsy, and opening up to each other on all manner of subjects.   
"I'm afraid of clowns," Iceman said.   
Maverick cracked up. "Yeah?"   
"They make me uncomfortable."   
"Who  likes clowns?"   
Iceman shook his head. "Strange people."   
"When I was eleven," Maverick said, "I had a crush on Nancy Drew."   
Iceman laughed.   
"I thought her boyfriend was a huge tool."   
Iceman tossed an empty beer bottle to the side. "Couple of years ago we'd been stationed in the same place for about six months and I got horny and fucked this little twenty-two year old ensign who'd been hitting on me all day," he said, making an inappropriate hand gesture. "He cried afterwards. No idea why. I just stood there."   
"Christ."   
"Yeah."   
Maverick stood up and wandered around the sailboat. "Guess what I heard on the radio on the way over?" He didn't wait for Iceman to guess. "You've Lost That Loving Feeling. The Elvis version."   
Iceman chuckled. "I remember you singing that."   
"Yeah?"   
"Yeah. Don't quit your day job."   
"Fuck you," was Maverick's reply. "I'd like to see  you sing."   
"I can sing just fine,  Maverick ," Iceman said, looking very smug all of a sudden.   
"Bullshit."   
"Watch out for the boom," Iceman reminded him.   
Maverick got hit in the head with the boom.

-

  
When Maverick came to and Iceman had ascertained that he remembered his name, the present year, and who had won the last World Series, Maverick suggested they maybe head back.   
Iceman was silently tugging on ropes and pulleys, absorbed in what he was doing, and Maverick watched him, occasionally rubbing at the red mark on his forehead.   
They docked and walked back to the parking lot together as Iceman pulled a shirt on.   
"You hear that?"   
Iceman shook his head.   
Maverick opened his door and started digging around in his glove compartment. "It's -" he pulled out a big black brick of a cell phone and jerked the antennae up. "Hello?"   
Iceman drummed his fingers on the car.   
"Commander," Jester said. "I have some bad news."   
"Okay, shoot."   
"You know Jameson? Nice kid from Alabama, callsign Bulldog, Snowflake's RIO."   
"Yeah. Yeah. What about him?"   
"There was an accident this afternoon."   
Maverick sucked in a breath. Iceman's fingers stopped drumming and he mouthed "what?"   
"You all right?"   
"What happened?"   
Jester hesitated.   
"Just tell me. Jesus!"   
"Pilot error. Padgett made a mistake and they went into a irretrievable spin during a dive. Plane crashed into the bottom of the canyon. They ejected, but Jameson's hurt. Bad. They airlifted him to a hospital in Chicago. Where the hell have you been?"   
"Uh -"   
"Never mind, just get your ass in here. Where's Kazansky?"   
"How the hell should I know?"   
Jester snorted.   
"I'll let him know what happened."   
"We're gonna get bad press on this, Mitchell, this is our sixth fatality in three years -"   
"Fatality? What fatality? The kid's not dead."  Not like Goose . "I'll be there in less than an hour."   
He hung up.   
"Jameson and Padgett went into a fl - a spin -" Maverick pressed his hand to his mouth. "Jameson's in bad shape. We need to do damage control."   
Iceman nodded. "I'll see you back at TOPGUN, then?"   
"I'll race you," Maverick said. It was a weak joke, considering the circumstances.   
Iceman checked his watch as he walked away.

June 27, 1998. United States Navy Fighter Weapons School, Miramar, California.

When they had arrived at TOPGUN there was nothing much to do but check up on Jameson every five minutes - he was still in critical condition - and call every single last one of his family members in Alabama and offer information and condolences. They had sent everyone home and canceled classes and hops for the next few days as a gesture of goodwill - Jester's idea. The press were circling like wolves.   
Maverick came into the office a few days later to get started on the mountain of paperwork building up on his desk. They had to schedule a court martial for Padgett and report all pertinent information to the government.   
"Call for you from Commander Mike Metcalf on line two, sir," his aide told him.   
"Who the hell's on line one? Never mind - hello?"   
"Afternoon, kid."   
"Afternoon, Viper." Maverick wondered how old he'd have to be before Viper stopped calling him "kid" and "son". Probably eighty.   
"Heard about the Jameson kid. Bound to be shitty publicity."   
"Makes you glad you retired, right?"   
Viper laughed. "Damn straight."   
"You know who's back?"   
"Iceman? Yeah, I heard. He was a good kid in his day. Hell of a pilot. Sure he's a hell of an instructor, too."   
"Of course," Maverick said, a little bitterly. No one had expected  him to be a hell of an instructor. He'd had to prove it. Still had to prove it.   
"Commander? Lieutenant Padgett would like to see you. Also, I have Iceman."   
Maverick clicked and unclicked a pen as he nodded. "Listen, Metcalf, can I get back to you?"   
"Fine with me. Good luck," Viper said, a trace of irony in his voice, and Maverick hung up.   
"Send 'em in."   
Harvey walked in, eyes fixed on his feet, paler than ever. When he was standing in front of Maverick's desk he drew himself up and saluted.   
"Sit," Maverick told him.   
The door swung again and Iceman appeared. He hadn't shaved recently, and there was an attractive smattering of dark blond stubble across his jaw. Maverick felt his cock twitch and shifted uncomfortably under the desk.   
"Lieutenant Padgett would like to discuss with you his future here at TOPGUN," Iceman said softly. He sounded tired, and avoided Maverick's eyes.   
"I'm quitting," Harvey said. He looked like he'd been crying. "I'm packing my bags and I'm going home."   
"Can I get two cups of coffee?" Maverick said, buzzing his aide. Iceman mouthed  no thank you . "Make that one cup of coffee. Thanks." He turned back to Harvey. "Listen."   
Harvey shook his head. "I made up my mind. I've already talked to Commander Kazansky about it. There's no reason for me to stay. Even if I'm cleared for flying. I messed up. I almost killed a guy. I don't deserve to be here."   
"In the future," Maverick said to Iceman, "I'd appreciate it if you didn't give my students unsolicited advice before I get the chance to talk to them."   
A tiny smile graced his lips. " Your students."   
"My students," Maverick repeated defiantly.   
"It's Snowflake's decision."   
Maverick flashed his eyes at Iceman in an unspoken message of  back me up on this, goddamnit  and Iceman relented, leaning comfortably against the door.   
"He didn't tell me to quit, sir," Harvey said. "He just gave me the facts."   
Of course.   
"I'd strongly advise not leaving the TOPGUN academy until your court martial is over," Maverick told him.   
"I can't  stay here, sir."   
"Enough with the  sir ," Maverick said.   
Harvey bit his lip. "If you're asking me to stay as my superior officer -"   
"I'm asking you to stay as someone who's been in your position."   
The meaning of this largely escaped Harvey, but he replied, "I'm not like you, sir."   
Iceman rolled his eyes.   
"You're more like me than you think," Maverick said. "Dismissed."   
Harvey nodded and departed.   
"The fuck was that?" Maverick demanded, jumping to his feet.   
"This is nothing like Goose," Iceman told him. "This was no freak accident, Mitchell, this was pilot error, this was a dumbass, completely avoidable mistake. And he -" Maverick tried to interrupt and Iceman plowed right through him. "He'll most likely be charged with involuntary manslaughter -"   
"Jameson's not dead."   
Iceman dismissed this with a flick of his wrist. "Dishonorable discharge -"   
"You don't know that -"   
"It's a foregone goddamn conclusion."   
"Why is the idea of someone making a fucking mistake so  threatening to you?"   
Iceman's face hardened. They glared at each other for a moment.   
"I need some air," Maverick said, pushing past him.

June 28, 1998. Miramar, California.

Maverick rolled to a stop in front of his house, glanced at his front yard, and immediately slammed on the gas again.   
When he was safely down the block somewhat he took another look. Four - no, five reporters in his yard. And a van. He squinted.  The San Diego Sun. The fuck?   
He called Iceman.   
"The press is in my front yard."   
"Afternoon, Mitchell."   
Maverick rubbed his forehead. "Sorry for the other day."   
There was a pause.   
"Fine. What was that about the press?"   
"They're in my goddamn front yard!"   
"Don't talk to them."   
"No  shit ."   
"Did they see you?"   
"No, I don't think so."   
"Good."   
"Why?"   
"'Could not be reached for comment' sounds better than 'no comment'. 'No comment' makes you sound like a feckless moron."   
"'Could not be reached' makes it sound like I'm passed out drunk in an alley somewhere. Where the hell am I supposed to go?"   
"Come by my place."   
Maverick drummed his fingers on the dashboard.   
"Or you could go talk to the reporters." Iceman's smirk was audible over the phone.   
"There wasn't any  press coverage when Goose died. Christ."   
"Welcome to the nineties."   
"I'll be there in ten minutes."

-

  
"I need to make a few phone calls," Maverick said. "Uh - LC Russ Anderson, my attorney, and Charlie - you have any booze?"   
"Jim Beam in the cabinet," Iceman said. "I'd cut it with something. What was that about Anderson?"   
"He's basically our Navy liaison," Maverick said.   
"I'm aware of that."   
"He told me to call him." Maverick poured a Sprite into a glass and then added a liberal amount of ice and bourbon. Iceman watched him and let out a sigh that tailed off into a quiet " shit ".   
"What?"   
"He thinks the Navy's gonna be looking to shut down the program," Iceman said quietly.   
Maverick nearly dumped bourbon all over the floor. "What?"   
"It's been brought up a few times this past week."   
"Behind my back?" Maverick demanded.   
"Not intentionally," Iceman said, voice soft, cutting a dark figure in the doorway.   
"Not intentionally?" Maverick repeated, slamming the glass down on the counter. "Not  intentionally ?"   
"Call Anderson." Iceman was in a state of maddening calm.   
"I  will  fucking call him, thanks."   
"Maverick, you're overreacting. There's no grounds to shut us down -"   
"Other than five fatalities and three near-fatalities in the span of a few years? And  all of those, Iceman , were pilot error or malfunctioning equipment -"   
Iceman disappeared and returned with a phone. Maverick sat down and dialed Anderson.   
"Hello?"   
"Commander Mitchell here."   
"Put it on speaker," Iceman said, sitting down. Maverick obliged.   
"Oh, hey. Listen, I'm a little swamped -"   
"Is the government shutting down TOPGUN?"   
Anderson stammered briefly. "Well -"   
"I'd like a straight answer."   
"It's not so much that," said Anderson carefully, "as... Well, we're becoming a bit of a liability. I mean, you know as well as I do that the face of aerial combat is changing. They've been pouring money into this program for years and we've been turning out some of the best fighter pilots that the country has seen in recent history. But now, with UAVs becoming more and more common, they're using the casualties - sick as it is - as a, maybe, a bit of an excuse to say, hey, we're draining taxpayer dollars to fund TOPGUN, and look, they're fucking up, excuse my French. It's not - I'm not worried about it, per se, but it's something we should take notice of. And we've got that pending litigation going, so, y'know, just another thing for Clinton to pick at if they come gunning for us. It's a numbers game, at the end of the day."   
"Why didn't I hear about this until now?"   
"I'm not sure, Commander. You know I try to communicate with everyone. It might be -" Anderson hesitated. "Well, you've been under a lot of stress lately -"   
"Fine," Maverick snapped. "I'll talk to you later." He hung up.   
Iceman brought over a box of cookies, nudged them toward Maverick, and took one.   
"I can't fucking believe this. My entire  career ."   
Iceman put a hand up. "Did he say  directly that the government is considering shutting the program down?"   
"No, you heard him, he skated around it -"   
"Exactly," Iceman said, brushing crumbs off his hands.   
Maverick ran his hands through his hair and moaned. "Jesus fucking  Christ ."   
There was a stretch of silence.   
Iceman was burning through cookies like they were breath mints. Maverick wondered if he was more concerned than he let on. More than likely, since Iceman didn't let on about much.   
"Twelve years of my life," Maverick said. "Twelve fucking years. My career and my marriage, down the shitter."   
Iceman tilted his head at Maverick.   
"You should lay off the cookies," Maverick said.   
Iceman smiled, got up, and leaned over. He pulled Maverick into a kiss, sending shockwaves and stabs of heat straight to his dick that did not pass go or collect two hundred dollars. Iceman's lips tasted like warm chocolate, and his body was soft and welcoming. Maverick pulled him closer, but Iceman stepped back.   
"You can sleep here tonight, if you need to," Iceman said, his body language suddenly hard to read, hand still on Maverick's shoulder.   
Maverick nodded. "I still have to call Charlie," he murmured.   
Their eyes locked.   
Iceman nodded and left the room. Maverick stared at the tabletop.

June 29, 1998. Miramar, California.

Maverick woke up with a dull throbbing ache behind his eyes. He rolled over, fell onto the floor, and groaned. When he managed to get up, he pinched his temples and staggered to the kitchen.   
Iceman, fully dressed, shaved, and coiffed, was reading the newspaper.   
"Jesus," Maverick said.   
Iceman glanced at him.   
"Sports section," Maverick said, holding a hand out. "Also, phone."   
"Your face is puffy," Iceman said.   
"I slept on your couch. I have dust allergies," lied Maverick, who had, in fact, woken up crying in the wee hours of the morning. "Phone?"   
Iceman handed him the phone.   
Maverick, after some hesitation, dialed Carol, because he wasn't sure where Charlie was, or if she'd want to talk to him.   
"Hey there, who's this?"   
"Carol? It's Pete."   
"Honey! Oh, it is  so good to hear from you."   
"I wasn't sure -"   
"I heard everything from Charlotte. I can't believe you kids couldn't work it out. You were  so  good together, hon." She let out a long, despairing sigh. "But if you need anything from me, if you need someone to look after Nick, or anything, I'm here. God, I love that kid."   
Maverick grinned. "Thanks, Carol. Appreciate it."   
"Have you heard from Scott? You need to talk some sense into him, Mav. You know he wants to move to Hollywood and get into show biz? I thought for years he'd go into the Navy and the other day he drops this bomb on me that he wants to be an  actor , of all things."   
Maverick drummed his fingers on the table. "I'll have lunch with him or something."   
"You better, sweetheart! He wants the glamorous life, then tell him how glamorous it is being a fighter pilot. Tell him he'll have women  throwing themselves at him."   
Maverick chuckled. "Okay, Carol."   
"Talk to you later, Pete. And listen, I'm so sorry about you and Charlie. Maybe it's for the best, hon."   
"Maybe," Maverick said, and hung up.   
"Lunch with who?" Iceman said, as he folded the newspaper up.   
"Shit, I forgot to ask her for Charlie's number."   
Iceman winced.   
"What?"   
Iceman shook his head.   
"Can I get a ride?" Maverick stood up and started wandering around in search of yesterday's clothes. Iceman smiled wryly and stood up, ambling over to Maverick. His thumbs slipped into Maverick's belt-loops and he stared unflinchingly at him.   
Maverick's eyes searched Iceman's face. Laugh lines, scowl lines, squint lines.   
Iceman kissed him, and this time, it wasn't a gentle brushing of mouths or a suggestion. There was raw power behind it. His lips skidded down Maverick's jaw and over his neck, teasing the skin with his teeth, not hard enough to leave a mark. Maverick moaned and seized him by the wrists, pushing Iceman's hands down over his own shoulders. Iceman shoved Maverick to his knees and Maverick's hand groped up his thigh, soft skin underneath his hands. Iceman spoke and Maverick heard it as distant radio fuzz -  this is Bravo, come in, how copy?  \- but then Iceman was pulling him to his feet.   
"Wait, lemme -" he was still fondling Iceman's fly, tugging at the zipper. Iceman's hands curled around Maverick's and with what looked like a great amount of effort, he pushed them away.   
"We need to take off," Iceman said, not making eye contact. Maverick wanted to punch him.   
"Great. I'll spend the rest of the day with blue balls because you have some hang-up about my wife - my ex-wife -"   
"Shove it up your ass," Iceman told him.   
Maverick jerked back.   
"I don't need armchair psychiatry. I just want to get out of here in a timely fashion." Iceman sucked in a breath. "Okay?"   
Maverick's teeth clenched.   
"Fine."

June 29, 1998. United States Navy Fighter Weapons School, Miramar, California.

"You've got mail!"   
The latest was from hillarywhalley@TOPGUN.gov. Maverick's eyebrows knit.   
FWD :  (no subject)   
Got this from Russ about an hour before you came in, Commander. Iceman mentioned you were concerned about being left out of the loop, and should take a look at it.   
\- Hillary   
Begin forwarded message:   
From :   
Date : June 29, 1998 9:24:27 AM GMT   
To : ctkazansky@TOPGUN.gov, lcrheatherly@TOPGUN.gov, lcswells@TOPGUN.gov, cjswanson@TOPGUN.gov...  (click to see more)

To whom it may concern,

As we're all aware, Lieutenant Harvey Padgett's hearing is tomorrow. If he's found guilty, we might be facing litigation. We already have a case against TOPGUN pending and the JAG Corps investigating heavily, so this is not the ideal situation... I have taken the time to talk to various government officials about what this will mean for the future of TOPGUN and we have a few folks from Washington coming down on Thursday to discuss what direction the program might be heading in. The fact that a boy was nearly killed in a routine training exercise is not something the Navy is viewing kindly, and it does not portray us in the best light. With what's been going on in Korea/China recently we may very well be facing another war, and the Clinton administration is not going to want to pour tax dollars into a defunct program.   
On the subject of Commander Mitchell we might want to keep him a little separated from the action on Thursday. I am not suggesting that information be kept purposefully from him, but he has been, effectively, the face of TOPGUN for the last decade and lately he's been a little off. I heard about his divorce and I have nothing but sympathy for him, but we want this situation to be as sanitized as possible and he has a reputation for being unpredictable.   
Other than that, we may want to send someone down to Alabama as a gesture of goodwill and to clear up some of this bad press we've been getting recently.

Thanks,   
Lieutenant Commander Russ Anderson   


-

  
"That little  prick!"  Maverick yelled, standing up and kicking his desk as hard as he possibly could.   
Iceman chose that moment to walk in, and observed Maverick clutching his foot in pain with mild detachment.   
"Thanks for letting me know," Maverick snarled at him.   
"You're welcome," Iceman replied, taking a seat.   
"I've been flying since before this kid had pubes, Tom! Where the  fuck does he get off?"   
Iceman put a hand up.   
"Don't -"   
"Listen," Iceman said. "This is a business. The whole military is a business. Anderson doesn't make any money unless he's busting balls."   
"I've been in this  business for twenty years, so you can take your patronizing -"   
"I'm not patro -"   
"- bullshit -"   
" Listen ." Iceman cleared his throat. "He happens to be busting your balls at the moment, and you're not the type of guy that takes that very well."   
"Not everyone is emotionally constipated, Kazansky."   
Iceman laughed.   
"What?"   
"I'm gonna go get some coffee," Iceman told him, getting up.

June 30, 1998. Miramar, California.

"Hello?"   
"Afternoon," said Charlie.   
Maverick's teeth gritted. "Yes?"   
"I just wanted to discuss a few things with you," Charlie said, voice light and pleasant. "Carol mentioned you didn't have my number, I'm sorry about that, I know you were probably worried about Nick..."   
All of the saccharine civility was setting off alarms. "Shoot," Maverick said warily.   
"I was talking to Beverly, and I mentioned... well, he said that I might want to file for divorce on grounds of adultery, instead of irreconcilable differences."   
There was a sharp pain in Maverick's chest. "What? I'm not - I never cheated on you -"   
"You told me specifically that you did, Maverick, remember?"   
He splayed his hand out on the kitchen table and took a deep breath. "California's a no-fault divorce state -"   
"We'll just see how it plays out in court."   
"You know what?" Maverick yelled into the phone, temper snapping. "I fucking did! I cheated on you, and I'm  still cheating on you, and I'm the happiest I've been in years! Tell  Beverly he can shove it up his ass!"   
Silence.   
"Great," Charlie said. The mask of pleasantry still hadn't slipped. "I'm very happy to know, Pete, that you threw away your entire family just to get your rocks off with a washed-up, glorified airline pilot. I'm sure my attorney will be, too."   
"It takes two," Maverick snarled.   
"Don't try to pin this on me. I went to counseling, I put in the work, it's not my fault you're an immature crybaby who's so afraid of other people's expectations that -"   
"And it's not  my fault you're a psychopathic, ball-busting ice queen -"   
" Please -"   
"Yeah? Please? Who made me give up my motorcycle, who made me feel like shit for years because your career had to be put on hold -"   
Click.   
Maverick threw the phone. It hit the refrigerator and shattered, pieces of plastic and batteries flying everywhere. He grabbed an old softball bat and a few balls out of the foyer closet, and headed for the backyard.   


-

Wumph.   
The softball bounced off of the window and rolled quietly into the bushes.   
Maverick's arm rose again, a second ball leaping out of his fingers, and then he drew back and smashed it away from him as hard as he could.   
Wumph.   
His fingers burned.   
The gate creaked, and there were footsteps and a crunching noise on the dry grass. The bat came back again.   
Iceman caught the ball in midair.   
"It's all  your goddamn fault," Maverick snarled, and he hit another one. It bounced off of the fence.   
"What?" Iceman said, taciturn as always. He walked forward cautiously, like Maverick was an escaped rhinoceros on a midday rampage.   
"My marriage," Maverick said, choking back tears. He flung the bat at Iceman and it hit him square in the chest.   
Iceman closed the space between them. Maverick rocked back on his heels but Iceman grabbed him by the shirt.   
"You told me your marriage was already over," Iceman murmured.   
Maverick made a choked noise.   
"Was that a lie?"   
"No."   
"Then I don't want to hear it," Iceman said.   
"So why are you hanging around here?"   
Iceman gave him a dour look. "I'll tell you one thing, Mitchell, I'm  not here to deal with your overemotional bullshit. I came to tell you that Padgett's been discharged."   
"What?"   
"That was the decision, as of fifteen hundred hours this afternoon."   
"But -" Maverick sat down on the deck. "Christ. Dishonorable?"   
Iceman nodded. "Let's go for a walk," he said, hand resting on his hip, thousand-mile stare fixed somewhere above Maverick's head.   
"What about Jameson?"   
"Last night's surgery went well. He's responsive."   
"Great." Maverick stood up.   


-

  
Maverick and Charlie had chosen their house primarily because of location, location, location. It sat on a sloping hill not too far from the beach - Viper was only a ten-minute walk away - and the neighborhood itself was rimmed with palm trees. The ideal place for raising a family.   
Supposedly.   
The two of them walked down to the shoreline in silence and fell into a comfortable, side-by-side stroll. Teenagers cruised by on surfboards, yelling incoherently.   
"Are you gay?" Maverick blurted out.   
Iceman stopped. Maverick faced him and shifted his weight back and forth, seesawing. "I mean -"   
"I sleep with who's interested," Iceman said. His voice was even, but his lips curved up slightly in a big bad wolf smile. "I keep up appearances."   
Maverick nodded. He knew all too well how that went.   
"Are you?" Iceman shot back, sliding his sunglasses into his breast pocket.   
Maverick sat down on the sand and stared into the distance. After a moment Iceman settled beside him, not too close. A blonde girl in a bright pink bathing suit fell off of her board halfway into a wave. They both watched as she climbed back on, shaking her hair out of her eyes and laughing.   
"I'm not anything," Maverick said, dropping his gaze to his hands and fiddling with his wristwatch. "I -" he brushed his hair out of his eyes. "I'm not anybody. I'm the person everyone thinks I am. A lot of times I've had - urges -" he broke off.   
"Urges," Iceman repeated, and he pulled his shirt off slowly, tossing it into the sand beside him and lying back. Two college-age girls walking by giggled and waved as they passed. Iceman smirked indulgently at Maverick.   
"Yeah, urges," Maverick snapped. "What, you don't get those? You're a fucking robot?"   
Their eyes locked.   
"I get plenty."   
A shiver ran down Maverick's spine. He looked away, but began unbuttoning his shirt, and pulled it over his head. "Charlie's going to wind up giving me a heart attack," he muttered.   
There was a beat, then Iceman said, "You wouldn't feel a little gypped, if you were her?"   
"'Scuse me?"   
"Think about it, Mitchell," Iceman said, looking out at the waves. "What are we? What are you, foremost?"   
"A father," Maverick said, confused.   
"No," Iceman replied. "You're a fighter pilot. We  are the job. At the end of the day, so is she."   
Maverick had nothing to say to that, and they lapsed into silence.

July 1, 1998. Miramar, California.

Nick had been left in Maverick's possession while Charlie conducted an interview with someone who had flown out from the Pentagon. "I would have gotten Sherry," she said disparagingly, "but she had a midterm to study for."   
So Nick wound up wandering around the house curiously, like he hadn't lived there his entire life, leaving Maverick to stare into space and drum his fingers on his thigh.   
Eventually he came back into the living room and began rummaging through the shoebox of VCR tapes on the floor. Maverick watched idly.   
"What's this?" Nick held up a tape.   
"What?"   
"The label wore off."   
"I think that's, uh..." Maverick got up. "The tape from our wedding. See the sticker?"   
Nick's brow furrowed in a very Charlie-like way. "Can I watch it?"   
Maverick hesitated. "Yeah - why not?"   
He regretted that as soon as Nick had fast-forwarded to the actual ceremony. There he was, a decade younger, as Charlie glided up the aisle to the soft strains of Mendelssohn. Maverick watched himself fiddle with his collar, look at his feet, and glance surreptitiously at his watch.   
"Jeez, Dad," Nick muttered.   
"What?" Defensiveness sprang into his voice.   
"You look like you're about to crap your pants."   
Maverick lunged for the remote and Nick tossed it to the side. Maverick ripped the extension cord out of the wall and the television went black.   
"Let's go play catch."   
"I don't -"   
"Wasn't a question, Nick."   
Nick didn't move. Maverick nudged him. "C'mon."   


-

Whack.   
Maverick stumbled out of the way of the ball. Sometimes he wondered if the only things Nick had inherited from him were green eyes and good aim.   
"I can tell you're angry," Maverick said.   
"I'm fine, Dad."   
Maverick lobbed another ball at him. Nick whacked it into Charlie's rosebushes.   
"Yeah?"   
"Okay, I just -" Nick tossed the bat down. "Why'd you have to mess everything up?"   
Maverick's head began to pound. "Whatever your mother's been telling you -"   
"She didn't  tell  me anything," Nick muttered.   
"Pick up the bat."   
Nick stood rooted to the ground.   
"Pick up the bat, we're having some goddamn father-son bonding time. You think  my father volunteered to play catch with me?" Maverick's voice cracked.   
"I don't know, Dad," Nick said. He sounded weary. "Your pitching stance sucks," he muttered.   
"Says who?" Maverick replied, lobbing one overhand.   
"My Little League coach. You're not supposed to -"  whack "- move unless you're doing windup -"   
"I've met your Little League coach, he has his head up his ass."   
Nick rolled his eyes.   
Gravel crunched as a black Escalade pulled into their driveway.   
"Mom," Nick said. He held the bat out to Maverick, who took it and strolled over to his soon-to-be-ex-wife.   
"Afternoon," said Charlie. She was in a dark suit, hair back, looking like she just rolled out of a meeting of Congress. Maverick stared at her.   
"You're in heels," he said.   
"For once," Charlie replied crisply.   
Nick showed up at that moment and Maverick bit back his response.   
Charlie tapped her finger on the car door and Nick got in, glancing between the two of them.   
"Well?" she demanded.   
" Well?"  Maverick shot back, nettled.   
Charlie sighed. "Do you have to be so  difficult all the time?"   
"Yeah. All the time ."   
Charlie rolled her eyes and got in the car. Before she pulled away, she said, "We're meeting next week to discuss a court date. Don't be late."   
Maverick suddenly felt vaguely queasy. He reached reflexively in his pocket, looking for cigarettes, and came up empty.   


-

  
July 1, 1998. Excalibur Cigar Lounge and Wine Bar, Miramar, California.

Scott was easy to spot. His hair was like Carol's, sandy and wind-strewn, and he was almost as tall as Goose had been. He spotted Maverick, flashed him a grin, and headed over.   
Maverick seized him in a quick bear hug, and they both sat.   
"Glad you could make it," Maverick said, taking a sip of his draft beer. Scott flagged the waiter over and ordered a virgin piña colada.   
"Yeah, of course," Scott replied.   
"Sorry I couldn't be at your graduation. I'm, uh, a little -"   
Scott waved his hand. "I didn't go either. I had an audition. Got my diploma in the mail."   
Maverick's hand clenched around his frosted glass. "So you're serious about this?"   
"Serious as a freakin' heart attack," Scott said, beaming. "And I as good as landed that commercial, my agent says. Speaking of which, I'm paying."   
Maverick shook his head. "I can't let you -"   
"Pete, you're in the middle of a divorce, the least I can do is pick up a check. I mean, you've been like a father to me the last ten years."   
Maverick was suddenly choked up. "Thanks." He pictured Nick in the distant future telling some guy - maybe Charlie's next husband -  you've been like a father to me,  and felt like stabbing himself with the butter knife the restaurant had provided.   
When the pina colada had been delivered and Maverick's beer refilled for the fourth time, he began piecing his disjointed argument together in his head.  Don't you want to follow in Goose's footsteps, Carol's disappointed with you, there's no job security in La-La Land, if you want to fly you've got me as an in, I used to be the best goddamn fighter pilot in the Navy - second best...  But the more he drank, the more he felt compelled to make small talk instead of accusations.   
"You love acting?"   
Scott nodded and wiped a tiny bit of whipped cream off his lip. Maverick's eyes caught this and hovered for a minute, locked onto the curve of Scott's mouth. He felt his cheeks redden slightly, and his dick twitched. Maverick took a deep breath and pressed the tines of his fork into his thigh.   
"It's not just that," Scott said. "I'm good at it, y'know? I can make people laugh, I can pull off serious stuff, too. I - I could be good."   
"Do it," Maverick said, hearing the slur in his own voice. "Do what you love, okay? Promise me that."   
Scott's brows met. "But -"   
"I changed my mind."   
A grin spread across Scott's face. "Thanks. That means a lot to me, Mav."   
When the waiter had been flagged down, check paid, and Scott had pulled away in his junky little car with an enthusiastic wave, Maverick stood and stared at the pavement.   
Iceman was weighing on his mind - not Iceman specifically, but the strange newness of him. The way he spooked slightly when a car backfired, the way he favored his right hand and grimaced when he had to tighten screws or reset gauges during pre-flight, the million-mile stare that was no longer a product of callow, disinterested youth, but now something different, and filled with an unspeakable guilt. The way he avoided mirrors, when he had once openly sought them out.   
Maverick drove home in silence.

July 2, 1998. United States Navy Fighter Weapons School, Miramar, California.

"So that's where we are right now."   
Maverick nodded. He was standing next to Iceman on the tarmac, watching the afternoon's class take off as the sun bled out into the violently orange sky. Russ was standing a few feet in front of them, always gesturing, keeping the attention off himself.   
There was a screech of metal rending metal as one of the jets skidded onto the landing strip, wing taking out a pair of zone lights. Beside him, Iceman twitched compulsively.   
"You okay, Tom?" said Russ.   
Maverick turned. Iceman was standing there, flight-suited, sweating profusely and looking pale underneath his tan. "Fine," he bit out. His pupils grew larger and larger, crowding the irises out.   
"Let's head back, then," Russ said, glancing at his watch and walking briskly in the direction of his office.   
"You sure?" Maverick said, when Russ was out of earshot. His hand went for Iceman's shoulder and Iceman knocked it away.   
Maverick took a step back.   
"We should go."   
Iceman nodded.   


-

  
Russ Anderson's office was a shrine to TOPGUN, or at least a shrine to the mass brainwashing of eighteen-year-old boys and girls across the country. Posters, brochures stacked on his desk. The Navy needs  YOU!  in bold black print.   
Jester was there, as well as Merlin, who taught the occasional class when invited. Sitting with his arms folded was Commander Olive Swanson, callsign Eagle. She had taken over manning the control tower for the previous XO, who had retired after spilling one too many coffees on himself.   
"Something to - oh, there they are, come in, take a seat, can I get you something? Coffee? No? Tea, maybe? We're discussing the game plan for Thursday."   
Merlin shot Maverick a nervous look and mouthed something that looked like  watch out.   
Maverick leaned over and muttered in Jester's ear, "Get me a copy of Iceman's file when you have the chance."   
Jester's jaw tensed. "Done."   
"Thanks," Maverick said, patting him on the back and sitting down.   
"Kazansky, coffee?"   
Iceman shook his head.   
"I was just saying how it concerns me that some of the unconventional methods that Commander Mitchell employs have become, well, canonized, for lack of a better word."   
"What kind of  unconventional methods?"  Maverick snapped.   
Russ steepled his fingers. Everyone averted their eyes.   
"Flybys, dangerous maneuvers, et cetera," Russ said, looking less friendly by the second, more Hans Gruber than Ronald McDonald. "Crashing a thirty-five million dollar plane and killing your RIO-"   
"That was a freak accident," Iceman said quietly from the doorway. "I don't think anyone here appreciates your attempt to deride a commanding officer, Lieutenant."   
Jester cleared his throat.   
"Never, sir," Russ said.   
Iceman stepped a little closer. Russ flinched, but all he did was pull a chair out and sit down.   
Olive lit a cigar.   
"I just don't know if it's a good idea to have you represent us in a professional capacity," Russ said quietly, looking at his desk.   
"So you want me out of the loop," Maverick said, leaping out of his seat. "Something like what you were trying to pull before, but guess what? I'm the  fucking base Commander and things like that get around!"   
Russ's face was very pink. "With all due respect, Commander, I feel you've been representing TOPGUN for the past ten years based mostly on good looks and talent, and lately it feels like you're steering this program the way you fly."   
"I'm a  damn good pilot," Maverick snarled. "And if you don't like the way I run things, you're free to seek a position elsewhere."   
"I don't think so, Commander."   
Maverick stood there, head pounding. Olive's cigar smoke was choking him. Everyone was staring, waiting.   
"I'll be right back," he said, slipping out of the room. Footsteps followed him down the hallway. Maverick turned around.   
"In here," Iceman said, tones clipped, pointing at a utility closet.   
"That little shit!"  Maverick yelled, when the door was closed behind them. Iceman stood with his back against the door. Maverick's eyes flickered down to his barely concealed hard-on.   
"That's sick," Maverick said. "You get off on watching me squirm, Kazansky? You -"   
Iceman kissed him, hand on his ass, groping him with clumsy urgency. He shoved Maverick backward until he was flush up against the wall, grinding into him with vicious intensity. Maverick let out a full-throated moan and his head tipped back against the cement wall behind him. Iceman's lips skimmed his neck, one hand down the pants of Maverick's pleated khakis. He undid the belt and they slipped to the floor.   
Iceman took hard fistfuls of Maverick's shirt and Maverick pushed back, kicking out at him and nailing him in the crotch. Iceman gasped and Maverick bit him, not even bothering with gentleness, his teeth digging into the skin of Iceman's neck. When he got to the jawline he tasted blood. Iceman winced and let go of Maverick with his right hand while the left kept a steady grip on his collar, knee coming up between his thighs.   
Maverick could barely think for the brain-splitting boner he was nursing, but Iceman seemed almost detached as he writhed and thrusted, finally resting his forehead against the wall and going still.   
"What?" Maverick panted into his chest.   
Iceman took a deep breath and untangled himself from Maverick, hands laced through his hair. He sat down on an upturned bucket, eyes wide and bright as he stared into space.   
"Sorry," he said. His shoulders quaked slightly as he spoke, but his expression didn't change.   
Maverick cleared his throat. "What -"   
Iceman drummed his finger against his leg.   
"- what the hell is going on with you?"   
There was a pause.   
"You have a notepad or something?" Iceman said.   
"Huh?"   
"Notepad. Get one."   
Maverick started rummaging through the shelves. "I need a -"   
Iceman handed him a pen.   
"Okay," Maverick said, sitting back down.   
"Symptom number one, flashbacks," Iceman said. He glanced at Maverick. "Write that down."   
Maverick complied.   
"Frequent nightmares."   
"How frequent?"   
"Almost nightly."   
Maverick jotted down  nightmares - frequent  in his sprawling, slanted handwriting.   
"Irritability, hypervigilance. Got that?"   
"Yeah."   
Iceman stood up and ran his hands through his hair, looking strangely composed, under the circumstances. After a moment he said, voice flat, "Sounds like post-traumatic stress."   
The notepad hung limply from Maverick's sweaty palm. His erection was still pulsing uncomfortably. "Why don't you book something with a -" he said.   
"Let's get something straight," Iceman interrupted. He held his hand out and Maverick gave him the pad, and then the pen, which he tucked into his breast pocket. "We're not gonna sit here and have a heart-to-heart. " He ran his thumb over the metal spirals. "If there's one policy I've tried to keep during the course of my career, it's that I don't shit where I eat."   
There was silence.   
Maverick pinched the bridge of his nose. "You don't want me involved?"   
"Everything's so goddamn personal to you, Mitchell. You wouldn't let Padgett quit, and he wasn't fit to be here, we all saw it."   
"I  care ," Maverick replied, hotly. "You don't, fine, you want to play the stoic asshole, whatever. But I  care. "   
"I'm not yours to care about."   
That stung.   
"Let's go." Iceman's hand was on the doorknob.   
"So you're not gonna do a damn thing about it. You're unbelievable, you know that, Kazansky? What the fuck is this list for, then? You  know what's going on here! Like this never happened to anyone before, like this is something new? Something embarrassing? You're a war veteran, Tom, for  fuck's  sake! You're just as wounded as somebody who got their leg blown off -"   
Maverick was practically spitting with anger.   
"You've been sitting here in an office for twelve years," Iceman said. His eyes were cold, empty, unfocused. "You don't know."   
"I know more than you think."   
Iceman gritted his teeth. "Sorry about your blue balls."   
And he left Maverick standing there in the closet, staring at the door.

July 3, 1998\. United States Navy Fighter Weapons School, Miramar, California.

"Commander," Russ greeted. "Good of you to join us."   
Maverick nodded.   
Iceman, Jester, Russ, and two strangers in suits with American flag pins on their lapels were sitting at a round table in the largest hangar. Rain was coming down in turrets outside, giving a soft edge to everyone's words.   
"This is Bob Moriarty, executive assistant to the Secretary of Defense, and Bill Parcells, adviser to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff over at the Pentagon."   
Maverick shook both of their hands in turn. Typical forgettable government-issue schmucks, both with pasty faces and mousy-brown hair.   
He sat and shot a look at Iceman, who ignored him.   
"I got that file you wanted," Jester muttered.   
"Thanks."   
"You're not gonna like it," Jester replied, cryptically.   
"We've just been discussing this... Padgett," Bob said, making a few notes on a clipboard he had.   
"Dropped the ball a little, there," Bill said, chuckling.   
Jester's leg was bouncing nervously under the table.   
Bob held up a hand. "Commander, is it true that on two separate occasions, Lieutenant Harvey Padgett told you that he did not find himself fit to continue his training at TOPGUN, and both times you dismissed these concerns?"   
"Yes, b -"   
"Were you present the day of the incident?"   
"No."   
"You didn't take the hop?"   
"No."   
"Did you speak to Padgett immediately prior to the incident?"   
"Am I on trial, here?" Maverick demanded.   
"No,  sir ," Russ said, smiling. Maverick fought the urge to throttle him.   
"How much do you make, Commander? One ten, one fifteen?"   
"One twenty-five."   
"Is that outside your pay grade?"   
"Yes."   
"By how much?"   
Maverick gritted his teeth. "Five thousand."   
Bill wrote that down.   
"Padgett came to me, too," Jester said, clearing his throat.   
Bob paused.   
"I didn't think anything of it. If a kid is here, we take for granted they're the best of the best and that they're damn well aware of it. This was unexpected, and we weren't equipped to handle it."   
"You  have had other incidents, even fatalities, in recent years."   
Russ broke in. "We're just concerned -"   
"Who's  we?"  Maverick snapped.   
"Remember, Commander, no one's attacking you," Bob said sharply.   
"- that in these times of uncertainty... Commander Kazansky, you've been in a war zone, you understand -"   
Iceman drew himself up, and a hush fell over the table.   
"Excuse me?"   
Bob and Bill exchanged a look.   
"Oh, sir, I - I didn't intend -"   
Russ's floundering was met with a cold stare.   
"Anyway," Bob broke in. "As Anderson said - we're just concerned."   
"Taxpayer dollars, Commander, taxpayer dollars," said Bill.   
"We'll be in touch," Bob added, getting up and shuffling his papers into a pile. "Soon."   
Bill nodded, and the two of them headed out into the rain.   
"You're setting me up?  You're fucking setting me up?"  Maverick screamed at Russ, leaping to his feet.   
"Lower your voice, Commander," Jester said quietly.   
"I'm not doing anything of the sort," Russ replied.   
Maverick lunged across the table and Russ staggered backward, genuine fear flashing in his eyes.   
"Jesus  Christ ," he spat at Jester. "Put a leash on your dachshund, would you?"   
This time it took the combined weight of Jester and Iceman to restrain Maverick, who hollered obscenities in Russ's general direction as he left the hangar.   
"You can't pull this kind of thing anymore, Maverick, you're under scrutiny, you might as well say goodbye to your career if you're going to keep up this bullshit..." Jester sighed.   
"I don't care," Maverick panted, wrenching out of their grasps. "I... I don't - care. I'll see you tomorrow, okay, I'll see you two tomorrow."   
Iceman seemed caught between sympathy and disgust. "Mitchell -"   
Maverick shoved past him on his way out.   
July 3, 1998\. Triple R Tattoo Co, Miramar, California.   
"That's it? Just a little heart?"   
"Yeah, that's it."   
"Huh. You know, you're the first guy I've had ask for one of those," the tattoo artist said, pushing up her sleeves. Her name tag said Amy and she was pierced and tatted to hell and back, with hot pink hair and an eagle inked across her breastbone.   
Maverick had staggered drunk around the streets of downtown Miramar - in the pouring rain, wearing only his dress whites - for about an hour, until he spotted the flashing neon lights: TATS, OPEN ALL NIGHT, and decided to cash in on a teenage fantasy.   
"I like the uniform. You Army?"   
"Navy."   
"Ah, yeah. Here, lemme just sterilize these real quick... You're sure you don't want anything bigger? Maybe a rose on your shoulder, bring out your eyes? You got great eyes, y'know, real intense. You seem like an intense guy."   
"Just the heart," Maverick said quietly. "How much?"   
"Does it hurt, or does it cost?"   
"Both."   
"Not that much, for a tat this small, and, uh... twenty bucks. You're sure you're not drunk? I don't serve drunks. I get too many of 'em from that bar nearby, they come back and want to sue me or something because they woke up the next morning with somebody's name on their ass."   
"I only had one beer," Maverick lied. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead, and he was damp and chilled to the bone.   
"Okay, where you want it?"   
He unzipped his pants and slid them down slightly, then pointed toward his inner thigh.   
"Right there? Nobody's gonna see it."   
"That's the point."   
"I can get behind that," Amy said. The alarmingly pointy instrument in her hand buzzed, and she grinned.   


-

  
When Amy was finished, she snapped her latex gloves off into the trash and said, "I don't usually say this, but that's a nice job. I mean, that's some symmetrical shit right there. I think maybe I've outdone myself."   
"Anything I should do?" Maverick muttered.   
"Just keep after it, y'know, if it looks infected, go get it checked out. It'll be a little sore for a few days. Other than that, enjoy."   
Maverick stared at the tattoo. It was tiny and pitch-black, a clear little heart standing out on the soft skin that so rarely saw daylight.   
"Thanks," he said, dazed.   
"No problem."   
Maverick tipped her an extra twenty and called a cab.

July 7, 1998\. United States Navy Fighter Weapons School, Miramar, California.

The details of the meeting in the hangar were known to most everyone by the end of the week. People stared blithely at Maverick when they thought he wasn't looking, and the class, having worn out the scandal of Jameson and Padgett, moved on to the bad blood between Anderson and Maverick, Iceman and Maverick, Jester and Maverick, Anderson and Jester, Maverick and the entire United States government, etc, etc.   
"Can we talk?"   
Iceman looked up. The crease between his eyes deepened, but he nodded.   
Maverick took his time closing the blinds and locking the door before he turned around, hands clasped behind his back, and approached Iceman's desk.   
"Something you need?"   
"An apology would be nice."   
Iceman sucked in a breath through his teeth. "Fine. I apologize."   
"I don't think I buy that," Maverick said, unbuttoning his dress whites, which had been dry-cleaned and pressed since Thursday. "I dunno, Tom."   
Iceman's eyes followed Maverick's fingers until the final button came undone and then dipped down over his treasure trail to where it led.   
"I got a tattoo," Maverick said, and he was seventeen again - an orphan with a bright future. a new motorcycle, and an attitude problem.   
Iceman opened his mouth and closed it.   
Maverick rested his elbows on the desk between them and with one hand slid his pants down ever so slightly, inviting Iceman to finish the job.   
He did, standing up gracefully like he was about to receive a congressional medal of honor.   
"It's small." Iceman stroked his finger over the ink-imbibed skin.   
Maverick took a step back so his ass was flush with Iceman's cock.   
"Not now," Iceman murmured - but his finger was still rubbing Maverick's thigh gently while the other hand crept under the elastic of his briefs.   
Maverick grabbed Iceman's wrist and twisted. Iceman hissed in pain.   
"What happened to your hand?"   
"Nothing."   
"Nothing?"   
He twisted harder and Iceman yanked out of his grip, shoving Maverick facedown on the desk and knocking the wind out of him.   
"You ask a lot of questions, Mitchell," he said, softly.   
"I need it - I need - you," Maverick gasped. " Jesus -"   
Iceman's hips came forward as he moved closer and Maverick quieted.   
"Five years ago I got shot down over the Pacific," Iceman said. "I broke my thumb ejecting. No one died. No sob story behind it. We got picked up an hour later." His hand ran up under Maverick's shirt, brushing along his individual vertebrae. "In the water."   
Maverick's back arched and Iceman slipped his underwear off his ass, the soft bite of the elastic moving as Iceman's fingers did, pressing and probing and pushing. Maverick moaned and dug his fingernails into the wood of the desk.

July 7, 1998\. Miramar, California.

When he arrived, Viper's wife was working in the garden, uprooting a row of cabbages. She gave him a friendly wave.   
"Afternoon, Commander," Viper said, raising his cup of coffee to Maverick as he walked into the kitchen.   
"Afternoon," Maverick replied, checking the urge to add a 'sir'.   
"You look good." Viper got up. "Let's take a walk. How's your divorce going?"   
Maverick shrugged, pushing up the sleeves of his flight jacket.   
They left the house together, Viper running a hand through his hair.   
"You should get laid," Viper said, squinting into the sun. "Best way to get over it, kid."   
Maverick chuckled. "I haven't exactly been living like a nun."   
Viper was quiet for a moment, then he slipped off his aviators and said, "Listen, Mitchell..."   
Maverick paused.   
"I understand the appeal of sleeping with a colleague," Viper said.   
"Who told you -"   
Viper put a hand up and he fell silent.   
"Don't throw your career away for a dye-job in a uniform, kid."   
"You're speaking from experience?"   
This was, to date, the single most insolent thing he'd said to Viper, who let it pass with a mere eyebrow raise.   
"I thought you loved  Iceman," Maverick said, doing his best not to sound resentful.   
Viper chuckled. "Guys like Iceman are a dime a dozen. There's nothing underneath the shiny wrapper. Don't get lost in that."   
"Is that him as a pilot or him as a person?"   
"As a pilot? He's excellent, one of the best. As a person..." Viper lit a cigar he'd been fiddling with and blew a ring of smoke into Maverick's face.   
"He's different now," Maverick said. "Not in a small way."   
"You have to expect that, after ten years on duty."   
Maverick's eyes followed a distant plane as it crossed the horizon.   
"Have you ever known anyone with, uh, post traumatic stress disorder?"   
"Quite a few," Viper said. "Comes with the territory."   
"Did they get over it?"   
Viper nodded slowly. "Some do. But not overnight, Mitchell. And they're never the same."   
Another smoke ring, but it was directed at the ocean.   
"You know, I always liked Charlie," he said. Maverick opened his mouth to rebut and Viper added, "Never seemed like she'd make much of a doting wife, though."   
"No," Maverick said through gritted teeth. "No."   
"I've got something for you," Viper said, and pulled a yellowed envelope out of his pocket. "Letter from Duke."   
Maverick felt a nerve twitch in his forehead. "Wh -"   
"To you. Thirty years ago, he wrote this."   
"Why now?"   
"I thought about giving it to you when you got married, when your son came along... never felt like the right time," Viper said. "So here we are."   
The setting sun glinted off his aviators and hit Maverick in the eyes, who looked down and accepted the envelope with a nod.   
"Thanks."   
"You're welcome, kid," Viper said, putting out his cigar and walking away.   



	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Twelve years into the future, Maverick's marriage to Charlie is dissolving, his relationship with his son is strained, and he has to cope with Iceman returning from a decade-long tour of duty to teach alongside him at Top Gun Academy. (This work was originally posted in chapters at FF.net, where it can still be found. I am moving the majority of my fic to AO3 due to their crackdown on mature works.)

July 8, 1998. United States Navy Fighter Weapons School, Miramar, California.

"Here's Commander Kazansky's file from Jester, sir."  
"Yeah, thanks," Maverick muttered, accepting it.  
Hillary smiled. "So, that Iceman," she said. "He's a dish, huh?"  
Maverick cleared his throat.  
"You're welcome," she added on her way out.  
Maverick slid his finger under the tab of the manila folder and flipped it open.  
COMMANDER THOMAS E. KAZANSKY, the top sheet read in block lettering. There was medical information under that. He skimmed through it.  
"Six one and one eighty my ass." Maverick snorted and skipped halfway through the packet. Certain phrases jumped out at him and tangled together in his mind - survivor's guilt, sustained heavy losses, unwilling to respond, chest injury, shot down, blunted affect -  
"Commander."  
Maverick looked up. Jester and Iceman were in his doorway. He shut the folder and slid it into his top drawer. "Something you need, Heatherly?"  
Iceman strolled through the office with alpha-dog swagger and settled in one of Maverick's chairs.  
"I thought the three of us should get together." Jester looked oddly pained as he said it, like someone had a gun to his head.  
"I was thinking that too," Maverick said, propping his feet up on his desk.  
"I suggested to Iceman that we try to coalesce with Anderson as much as possible, while simultaneously protecting our interests."  
"So what does that mean?"  
"We go along with him and his bullshit for now, but if it proves necessary we'll sell him down the river."  
"That's a little insane," Maverick said.  
Iceman coughed something into his fist that sounded like "glass houses".  
"I don't understand why we can't just tell him to go fuck himself now and save the trouble."  
Jester sighed.  
"I don't understand," Iceman drawled, "why we can't just let him say whatever he wants to the bureaucrats and leave it at that."  
Jester turned slowly. "You want this program to head in whatever direction, with no regard to the work Mike Metcalf and I did to shape it, and the work I still do to shape it with the help of Commander Mitchell?"  
"I have to raise issue with the idea of -"  
"Excuse me, Commander, but I don't think occasionally parking your train in Maverick's station qualifies you to make decisions about the future of this program."  
There was a beat of silence. Iceman's jaw tensed.  
"Lieutenant, stand down," Maverick murmured.  
Jester nodded. "My apologies," he said curtly. "I think this meeting is over."  
"Great."  
When the door had swung shut behind him, Maverick let out a sigh.  
Iceman tipped his head back. "You want to get a drink later?"  
"You talking to me or the ceiling?"  
"You," Iceman said, with a surprisingly soft edge to his voice.  
Maverick hesitated. "I got this letter from my father."  
"From beyond the grave? That's damn expensive postage, Mitchell."  
"From Viper."  
Iceman nodded. "And?"  
"I haven't opened it yet."  
Iceman laughed. "Scared?"  
"No, I just... no," Maverick snapped. "I don't want to, y'know, get my hopes up and then have it be... nothing. Or worse than nothing."  
Iceman seared him with that familiar steady gaze.  
"So, drinks tonight?"  
"Officer's club?" Iceman said.  
"I have some of the good stuff at my place."  
At my place seemed to bounce off the walls and hang in the air. Iceman's expression belayed nothing.  
"Officer's club, then your place," Iceman said, standing up. He hung in the doorway for a moment, shoulder blades rippling under his shirt as he turned back to Maverick and said, "I'd like to take another look at that tattoo."  
July 8, 1998. Miramar, California.  
"It isn't."  
"Okay, Lawrence of Arabia has one iconic scene, Pulp Fiction has like, twenty."  
Maverick rolled his eyes. He was leaning on the bar, quickly approaching three sheets to the wind status, and Iceman was either very late or standing him up. Either way, his mood wasn't improved by the two lieutenants standing near him, having an unnecessarily loud discussion about the best director of the twentieth century that had somehow become a hypothetical cockfight between David Lean, Steven Spielberg, Ingmar Bergman, Martin Scorsese, the Coen brothers, and Quentin Tarantino.  
"The quality of a film has nothing to do with the imitability. Just because people want to parrot something doesn't make it good. I mean, look at Michael Bay and Jerry Br -"  
"'Scuse me," Maverick cut in.  
They both turned, took a second to register who he was, and promptly fell all over themselves.  
"Oh, hello, Commander -"  
"Sir! I didn't - we didn't see you there -"  
"Can I buy you a drink?"  
"No," Maverick waved away all of this. "I was just going to ask you to shut the hell up," he said with an affable smile.  
"Oh, okay, sir," the taller one said. His friend elbowed him in the stomach.  
Maverick returned to his whiskey.  
"Mitchell."  
He turned to see Iceman walking over, gracefully parting the crowd like Moses.  
"You're late," Maverick said.  
"I know," Iceman replied, taking a few salted cashews from the dish on the bar and resting his hand on Maverick's thigh as he leaned across him. "Neat scotch," he told the bartender.  
Maverick considered Iceman carefully. His square jaw, the sharp line of his nose, the way his eyes never came to rest on anything but were always, constantly, untiringly moving in their sockets - body tensed for disaster, muscles rippling under his skin.  
"I, uh, need you," he said. "For this."  
Iceman met his eyes.  
Maverick patted his chest where the letter was folded in the pocket of his dress whites. "I need somebody, Tom."  
-

Maverick made sure he was good and drunk first, and sat down across from Iceman, with the coffee table between them. He took a deep breath and ripped it open with the X-Acto knife in his palm.  
The letter itself was in better condition than the envelope.  
"I should rip it up," he muttered.  
Iceman made an ambiguous hand gesture.  
"You need to have an opinion for once in your goddamn life, okay?"  
"Fine. Don't read it, do read it, you think a letter's going to fix the thirty-eight years of hell you put yourself through? You think it's going to fix your relationship with your kid? It's a lot to ask out of something he wrote when you were in the third grade."  
Maverick unfolded it.  
Dear Pete,  
I'm writing this letter sitting on the flight deck. My buddy Mike just got a few pictures of his daughter in today's mail, so I figured I'd send something along to you.  
You're growing up way too fast, kid, every time I see you, you've grown a foot, it feels like. Maybe you'll be the first one to beat those short Irish genes.  
Daisy says you're doing well with baseball. That was always my sport, you know.  
Mostly I just wanted to say that last time I was home I was a little hard on you, and I'm sorry for it. My dad was always real hard on me, he was never very touchy-feely with me or my brothers. I grew up without learning how to say things like I love you, or I'm proud of you. I'm gone an awful lot, and your mom's not always there, even when she is... you know what I mean.  
You're the most important person on the world to me, and I'm prouder of you than you'll ever understand. Someday, when you have your own kids, maybe you will.  
There was more, but it was blurring together. Maverick folded the letter up into uneven squares and stood. He left the room and sat down hard on the stairs, feeling something building in his chest.  
Mercifully, Iceman let him be.  
-

The phone rang.  
Maverick roused out of the fitful sleep he'd fallen into lying on the landing, fly of his jeans digging into his thigh. Iceman sauntered over and tilted his head.  
"I'm coming," Maverick muttered.  
Iceman tossed him the phone and he fumbled and dropped it.  
"Nice hands."  
"Fuck off," Maverick said, sitting up and running his hand through his dark hair. "Hello?"  
"Hello, Pete? It's Ned. I just wanted to let you know that Charlotte's camp is getting antsy about a court date."  
"That's great."  
Ned missed the sarcasm. "I, um, just thought - you should come in, soon, I think, so we can discuss things."  
"Great," Maverick repeated, and hung up.  
With a groan, Iceman sat down beside him. Maverick buried his face in his chest.  
"You smell good," he said quietly.  
Iceman just laughed. "You're drunk, Mitchell."  
"I know."  
They lapsed into comfortable silence.

July 10, 1998. Miramar, California.

"That doesn't give you the right to drain the account."  
"It's a joint account, I have every right in the world."  
"You're robbing Peter to pay Paul."  
"No, Peter's robbing you to pay Peter's fucking divorce attorney!"  
There was silence.  
"I'm pulling onto Grove, make sure Nick's ready to go."  
"Fine."  
Maverick hung up on Charlie and kicked the stove. The doorbell rang.  
It was Iceman.  
"Your timing is really shitty," Maverick snarled at him.  
Iceman just grinned in that irritating way of his. "Yeah?" he said, nudging Maverick aside and taking a seat on one of the leather bar stools.  
The front door opened again, and Charlie walked in.  
There was a beat of awful silence while she and Iceman sized each other up, like two bears that had been pissing in the same territory for a while but only now come face-to-face.  
"You have a lot of nerve," Charlie told Maverick. Her voice was like a whip crack.  
Iceman put his hands up. "I came over here to drop off paperwork."  
"Don't," she snapped. "Don't say anything to me."  
The familiar sounds of Hexen II abruptly died and Nick wandered out of the living room. All three adults stared at him.  
"Get in the car, honey," Charlie said.  
Nick's gaze was fixed on Iceman. His face showed vague understanding for a moment, and then it was smoothed over and he was pasting on a fake smile and empty eyes.  
"Okay."  
Maverick clenched his jaw.  
When the door had clicked shut, Charlie leaned against it.  
"I don't want to see you in my house ever again," she said to Iceman.  
"It's not your house," Maverick shot back, "I paid -"  
"California," Charlie said, "is a community property state."  
"You won't," Iceman interjected.  
"I'll have him back around dinner. I have a phone interview at six."  
She swept out of the house.  
Iceman threw his manila folder at Maverick. It hit him in the chest and he grabbed it by the spine, dumping reports all over the floor.  
"The fuck -"  
"I never auditioned for a role in the destruction of your marriage, Mitchell. Get that straight."  
Maverick stared at him. "You -"  
There was a rumble as Charlie pulled out.  
"I'll talk to you later, Commander," Iceman said.  
Maverick lunged forward and seized him by the sleeve. "My marriage is over."  
Iceman's expression remained even.  
"My marriage," he repeated, "is over. It's been over."  
Iceman knocked his hands away. Maverick grabbed him again and kissed him, ripping the seams of his collar. Iceman buckled and their bodies came together, collided. Maverick panted into his collarbone, dragging his teeth along Iceman's neck and sucking delicately.  
"We can't keep doing this," Iceman muttered, lips pressed to Maverick's forehead.  
"I can."  
He undid Iceman's fly as Iceman thrust against him, slow like clockwork. Maverick felt himself heating up and tautening with arousal like a high-tension wire.  
Iceman's resistance was fading, and Maverick could feel it - because at the end of the day, they were two men, two lonely, charming egomaniacs with an emptiness in their chests that no amount of fast flying could fill.  
-  
"I have no idea what's going on here."  
Iceman chuckled into Maverick's neck. "They killed his brother -"  
"I got that part."  
"And Friendly's trying to stop him from testifying." Iceman slipped his hand over Maverick's waist and muted the TV. "It's late. I should get going."  
The couch creaked as he stood up. Maverick rolled over onto his back and sighed. "Don't," he moaned.  
But Iceman was already pulling his pants back on. Maverick sat up, dark hair flopping into his eyes. Iceman leaned over, kissed him soundly on the mouth, and muttered a quick goodbye on his way out.  
And just like that, Maverick was left alone with black-and-white Marlon Brando and his pigeons.

-

When Charlie brought Nick home, he was covered in various ballpark souvenirs.  
"Where'd you take him?" Maverick said as soon as he was out of earshot.  
"Is that any of your business?"  
"He's still my son."  
"Oh, I'm sorry. So you can bring your smarmy, homewrecking sleazebag of a boyfriend home and parade him around in front of our nine-year-old child and I'm the bad parent? Richard had tickets to a game at Petco park, so he went with him and Scott."  
"Fine."  
Charlie turned on her heel and strode back to the Escalade.  
"Ice queen," Maverick called after her.  
He could tell she wanted to flip him off, but true to form, she was too composed.  
Maverick traipsed after Nick. "Hey," he said, leaning on the doorway of his bedroom.  
Nick was silent as he sat down on his bed, staring at the floor.  
"I'm sorry about this morning."  
"About what?" Nick said evenly.  
"I invented that, y'know. Big fake smile, blank face. It fools your mother. It doesn't fool me."  
"Dad, I don't know what you're talking about."  
"Tom Kazansky is a friend of mine," Maverick said.  
"Okay."  
"Your mother doesn't have friends?"  
"Not ones that make you scream at her," Nick muttered.  
"She wasn't screaming at me."  
"I heard you."  
Maverick took a deep breath.  
Nick kept his eyes fixed on the floor. "I'm going to bed, okay?"  
"Yeah."  
Maverick closed the door tightly behind him.

July 11, 1998. United States Navy Fighter Weapons School, Miramar, California.

"Call on line one, Commander."  
Maverick picked up.  
"Pete Mitchell?"  
It was Beverly Billington. Maverick briefly considered throwing the phone through the plate glass window of his office.  
"Yeah?"  
"The court date is upcoming -"  
"I'm aware."  
"I'm giving you an out. One last chance to settle outside of court. Once we take this in front of a judge, you're screwed. You don't have a chance in hell. I'm an excellent attorney, and I will take everything. Your dignity, your properties, your assets, your child. Back down now, and we'll put together a settlement. I'll save you the media circus - you can keep your car, your savings, and your place in the Hamptons."  
"No," Maverick told him.  
"No?"  
"No."  
"You'd rather spend a year in court?"  
"I don't plan on spending a year in court. We can settle finances, but I want custody awarded at the preliminary hearing."  
"I'll tell you right now, you're not getting custody."  
"She doesn't even have a place of resid -"  
"Ms. Blackwood has closed escrow on a two-bedroom apartment in D.C. She has a job with the Pentagon lined up, as well."  
Maverick fumbled the phone. "Uh, can we meet? The four of us?"  
"Whenever you like."  
"How about the fourteenth? I'll have Ned call you." Maverick hung up. "Prissy little son of a..."  
The door creaked and Iceman appeared.  
Maverick jumped out of his seat, spilling coffee on himself.  
Iceman muttered something under his breath and snagged a couple of doughnuts from the box on his desk as Maverick dabbed at his shirt.  
"I've got some bad news."  
Maverick looked up. "'S'that why you're eating all my doughnuts?"  
"Jameson passed away last night. He fell back into a coma and succumbed to multisystem organ failure."  
Maverick took a deep breath and looked skyward.  
"His parents are flying up from Alabama," Iceman continued. "I can meet with them, if you don't feel comfortable with it."  
Half of him wanted to turn and run like hell, but the other half was a little too proud to let Iceman horn in. It was funny how you could sleep with someone, care about them, share a bit of their personal darkness, and still see them as an interloper - the asshole from a decade ago who could do no wrong.  
"Yeah," Maverick said after a moment of deliberation. "Actually, I'd appreciate that, Kazansky."  
Iceman nodded slowly. "Is it Bradshaw?"  
"Huh?"  
"Goose."  
Maverick shook his head. "I just don't - I feel - responsible, is all." He sat down again. "What are you going to tell them?"  
Iceman sighed. "That he was a good pilot, a faithful RIO. That it was a freak accident." He closed the blinds and moved behind Maverick's desk, giving him a soft kiss.  
"You need to shave," Maverick muttered.  
Iceman laughed. "They should be here tomorrow morning," he said, and moved for the door.  
Maverick glanced up from his desk, clicking a pen in his hand. "Are they planning to sue?"  
"Excuse me?"  
"His parents. For wrongful death," Maverick said.  
Iceman hesitated.  
"Whatever it is, I can handle it, Kazansky."  
"It's a possibility."  
Maverick swore. "Every asshole with bars on his sleeve is getting in line to screw me, you know that?"  
Iceman slid his hands into his pockets. "It's a strange business we do, Mitchell," he said quietly, and departed.  
-

Maverick wandered into the showers after his mid-morning hop, slick with sweat and frustrated at every single last one of his students. Sometimes he wondered if he was cut out for teaching at all, or if he'd wind up as a cautionary tale on the six o' clock news. Navy Commander goes insane, strangles promising young fighter pilot to death with shoelaces. Film at eleven.  
It didn't help that Iceman was always there, questioning his authority, correcting him, one-upping him.  
Maverick paused as he rounded the corner. There was the faint rush of water echoing in the showers, but he knew for a fact there was no one there. Or had assumed so. He was about to leave when a low moan reached him, bouncing off the tile, and he realized. He'd recognize that voice anywhere. It was Iceman.  
Against his better judgment, he moved closer.  
Iceman was jerking off, fisting at himself with slow determination. The curtain was pushed back a few inches, revealing everything - the curve of his throat, the faint squeak of skin on tile as he writhed against the wall.  
Heat seeped into Maverick's stomach and he felt himself flushing, pants suddenly tight. He opened his mouth, but soundless air rushed out as he stood there, watching Iceman.  
There was something bedevilingly handsome about him in that moment.  
Iceman cut his eyes across the room and vanished behind the curtain for a moment. When he reappeared there was a towel wrapped around his waist. Maverick swallowed.  
"Spying on me, Mitchell?"  
"Maybe."  
It came out tough, but Maverick felt vulnerable standing there, rock-hard and pink in the cheeks.  
Iceman gave him one of those ingratiating little smiles of his and pulled Maverick into the shower, pushing him up against the wall. Maverick let out a noise and begged "please", his voice rising and cracking. Iceman's right hand twitched as he grazed his fingers over Maverick's face.  
Maverick took his wedding band and twisted a few times until it came off, letting it fall and bounce into the drain. He slid Iceman's Navy ring off and onto his own finger in its place. Iceman gazed at Maverick, expression strange, and loosened his belt.  
-  
An ensign in knife-edge whites stopped Maverick in the hallway as he returned to his office with skewed hair, neck dusted with hickeys. Iceman trailed about twenty feet behind, doing his best to look inconspicuous as possible, like he hadn't just hastily washed Maverick's pre-come off his hands in the locker room sink.  
"I have a page for you, Commander," the ensign said nervously. "Um, Ted - Ted Boeck, with the San Diego Union, he'd like an interview at your soonest convenience."  
"Tell him I'm not giving any interviews."  
"He's insistent, sir."  
Maverick drummed his heel against the battleship linoleum. "Fine." The weight of Iceman's ring - where his wedding band had been light and familiar - was distracting.  
Back in his office, the little light over line one was blinking. Iceman took a seat as Maverick picked up. "Yeah?"  
"Ted Boeck with the San -"  
"Listen, Ted, I'll have my people call your people."  
"Excuse me?"  
"I'm not sitting here and spoon-feeding you the details of a tragedy, you little ambulance chasing son of a bitch."  
"Excuse -"  
Iceman hit Maverick in the shoulder with a well-placed sucker punch and grabbed the phone out of midair as he dropped it. "Ted?" he said, as Maverick sank to his knees, rubbing his arm, and breathed Lamaze-style through the pain.  
When he had smoothed things over and hung up with Ted, Iceman let out a slow sigh and pinched his forehead. "Mitchell..."  
"I don't have to take that from the press," Maverick snapped. "I'm in charge, that should count for something."  
Iceman sat down next to him on the floor. "I'm not going to stand by and watch your career take a hit because you're feeling powerless in your life and you want to lash out at everybody."  
"Don't psycho-analyze me. You're a puffed-up, self-aggrandizing dye job -"  
"Maverick -"  
"- who won't even get help because he's got too much goddamn pride -"  
Iceman fished something out of his pocket and handed it to Maverick. It was an insurance statement.  
Maverick took it and furrowed his eyebrows.  
"I went to a neurofeedback center. They service veterans." He cleared his throat.  
"Did they do anything?"  
"Slider's in town. He wants to go get a drink with me tomorrow night. Tag along if you want."  
"Yeah, fine. Did -"  
"They just asked me some questions," Iceman said, getting up with a small groan. "You should get moving, Mitchell, we have a civilian from AIAA coming in to give a talk in a few minutes."  
There was a brief clicking as he walked away, then Maverick's office door swung shut.

July 12, 1998. Half Moon Bay Grill and Bar, Miramar, California

Slider was ostensibly in town to pay Iceman a visit, but Maverick was nursing a healthy amount of suspicion. The last time an alumnus of TOPGUN had shown up in Miramar, it had been Hollywood, looking for a job.  
Iceman had wandered over during pre-flight, under the pretense of inspecting Maverick's plane, and asked if he wanted a ride to the bar, since they were, most likely, going to wind up sleeping together that night anyway.  
"You're a little cocky, Kazansky."  
"With you, Mitchell, I can afford to be," Iceman said, giving the jet a pat. The metal rang as he sauntered away.  
Maverick walked in a few paces behind Iceman, glancing around. There was a general odor of cigarette smoke in the air, and he dug his fingernails into his palms to offset cravings.  
Slider appeared and wrapped Iceman in a bear hug that lasted about ten seconds too long, then let him go and gave Maverick a brisk handshake.  
"You're getting gray," Iceman said as they slid into a booth, him and Maverick on one side and Slider on the other.  
"Fuck you," Slider said, good-naturedly. "So, Mitchell," he added, lacing his hands behind his head. "I heard you're divorced, or something?"  
"Almost."  
Slider snorted. "I didn't even know you got married, Peter Pan. And you have kids? Jesus, that's scary."  
"Just the one," Maverick said quietly.  
"Drinks?" Iceman said, sliding out. The first few buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing some chest. On anyone else it would be sleazy, but somehow he pulled it off.  
"Rum and ginger ale," said Slider.  
"Uh... neat vodka."  
-  
"I told them I wasn't flying with his ass anymore, what did they expect? So he calls me up, two o' clock in the fucking morning, begging me to take him back, because I was his third RIO that year and if he got passed over for squadron leader one more time he'd kill himself. What a tit," Slider said, knocking back his drink.  
Iceman chuckled. He had one hand on Maverick's shoulder and was stroking him with his thumb, clearly on autopilot. Maverick wondered if they'd even notice if he got up and left.  
"So thanks for ditching me, bastard," Slider said. "You're off playing with the big boys and I'm stuck with these assholes. I'm thinking about getting a desk job, it's just too much, y'know? I'm not getting any younger."  
Maverick took a sip of his beer. He felt Iceman's eyes on him and flicked his tongue along the rim of the bottle.  
Iceman made a soft noise low in his throat.  
Either Slider was oblivious or too damn drunk to care, because he launched into another diatribe. Iceman continued his mmmhmm-ing and nodding routine, brushing a finger along Maverick's hairline, making the hair on his bicep stand up.  
The sandwiches wound up being awful. Iceman remarked, rather darkly, he hadn't had food this bad since he was stationed in London.  
Slider seemed intent on excluding Maverick completely from the conversation, with his long-winded, nostalgic ruminations on those good old days back in flight school. Iceman kept his hand on Maverick's shoulder, squeezing him once in a while as if to silently apologize. Or maybe he was just hoping to get laid. It was hard to tell, with Iceman.  
By the time Slider had rolled around to the Hollywood stories, Iceman had moved a few inches closer and dropped his hand to Maverick's thigh, rubbing him under the table.  
"I gotta piss like a racehorse, I'll be right back," Slider said, getting up.  
"What do you feel like?" Maverick muttered, splaying his hips open slightly. Iceman's hand dipped into the curve of his inner thigh, brushing his crotch.  
"Self-loathing," Iceman said.  
"What do you feel like doing, later, I meant."  
"I feel like taking you back to my place and fucking you up against the mirror in my bathroom," Iceman said, with a certain amount of ironic detachment.  
Maverick bit his lip, holding in a moan, and shifted in his seat.  
"So I can watch," Iceman added, eyes fixed on the door of the men's room.  
Maverick arched his back against the leather of the booth and took a few deep breaths. He was sweating like a pig and his heart was doing laps inside his chest.  
The door to the men's room creaked and Slider reappeared. Iceman let go of Maverick and cleared his throat.  
"Uh, we're gonna hit the road," Iceman said, tossing a twenty on the table.  
Slider nodded. "If you want to get together later this week, I'm free."  
-  
July 12, 1998. Miramar, California.

"You think he knows?"  
Iceman glanced over at Maverick. Streetlights passed over the car, lighting up his face.  
"Slider?"  
"No, Mr. Rogers."  
"He's not an idiot," Iceman said.  
"You should get over."  
Iceman grumbled. Someone behind them honked and yelled, "Get over, asshat!" out their window. Iceman went even slower in response.  
Time passed in edgy silence. Normally the two of them could go for hours sans conversation, but not with sexual tension bouncing around like this.  
"I think you're jealous," Iceman drawled, twiddling the wheel as they pulled onto his street.  
"Jealous of what?" Maverick muttered.  
"Slider."  
"Bullshit," he replied mildly.  
-  
The lights were all off, but Maverick had never minded the dark - night carrier landings didn't trouble him the way they did other pilots.  
Iceman slid a finger over Maverick's lips, tugging the lower one down, scraping his fingernail over Maverick's gums and making him shudder from head to toe. They staggered into the bathroom like drunks and Iceman leaned an elbow into Maverick's back, shoving him up against the full-length mirror. Maverick let out a moan, and it was good, a full-throated noise that rose steadily in pitch and made Iceman's thrusting go erratic for a moment. He regained composure and rested his forehead against the mirror, hips rocking evenly. Maverick's nipples were hard against the cold glass.  
"Condom?" Iceman muttered, lips brushing Maverick's ear.  
"Top drawer."  
Iceman padded back into the bedroom and started rummaging around. He returned and Maverick heard the soft rip of the wrapper.  
He didn't quite want to reach climax yet, yet Iceman was taking his sweet goddamn time. Maverick whined.  
"Hold on," Iceman murmured, smirk barely detectable in the dark. He slid a finger up inside Maverick, who let out an unintelligible string of vowels.  
The finger was replaced by Iceman, all Iceman. Colors exploded behind Maverick's eyelids.  
-  
They curled up next to each other in a haphazard nest of sheets, sticky with sweat and come and other sundry substances. Iceman stroked Maverick's hair off his forehead and whispered nonsensical little sweet things in his ear. The word wingman crept in there once or twice, contextually unbidden.  
Once Iceman had dropped off into fitful sleep, Maverick grabbed his bicep (freckled from sun damage and dusted in blonde hair) and pulled it underneath himself, coyote ugly style. Nightmares or no nightmares, he refused to let Iceman run off in the middle of the night.

July 13, 1998. United States Navy Fighter Weapons School, Miramar, California.

"The thing about the fifth generation series of aircraft will be stealth," Maverick said. "That's the advantage. They'll come equipped with AESA radars and LPI networks. The military remains partial to the Boeings, but -"  
"- Lockheed Martin is... incorrigible," Iceman said, strolling up the aisle, posture ridiculously erect as usual, hands in his pockets. The students snapped to attention as he walked by.  
"President Clinton -"  
Laughter broke out at the mention of Clinton. Iceman snapped his fingers once, and it died. He stepped up beside Maverick and made a quick diagram on the blackboard.  
"This is how Russia's economy works," he said, sketching in a triangle. "They've privatized a great deal of their industry."  
"Except," Maverick continued, "for the energy and defense-related sectors."  
"Which means..." Iceman turned.  
A hand went up.  
"Lieutenant?"  
"They're primed for a massive economic collapse?"  
"Correct," Maverick jumped in. "Clinton has -"  
More laughter. Maverick put up a hand. "Yeah, it's very funny, adultery is very funny. Shut the fuck up," he snarled.  
This was met with stunned silence. Behind him, Iceman sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.  
"- passed legislation that led to the formation of the NTO," Maverick said.  
Jester walked in and cleared his throat.  
"Can I speak with you two in private for a moment?"  
"Dismissed," Iceman told the class, fiddling with his watch.  
With a murmur of "yes sir," they filed out.  
"Sorry," Jester offered.  
"We were wrapping it up, anyway," Maverick muttered. He didn't add thank God, but he was thinking it. Teaching with Iceman was like being in hell, if the devil chewed Dentyne.  
"Let's use my office," said Jester, clearing his throat.  
"Lead on, Macduff," Maverick replied.  
"Lay on," Iceman said, getting up.  
"Huh?"  
"Lay on is the orig -"  
Maverick interrupted him with a hand gesture that was a mix of "suck my dick" and "shove it up your ass". Iceman reciprocated in kind.  
When the glass door had closed behind them, Jester did a bit of pacing and then leaned down, hands on his desk, and raised his eyebrows at the pair of them.  
"Yeah?" Maverick said. A strand of hair fell into his eyes, and he smoothed it back.  
"The boys upstairs want to move the operation to Fallon."  
Maverick blinked. "Fallon?" he demanded, voice rising a few octaves.  
"Yes."  
"In Nevada?"  
"Yes."  
"Jesus," Maverick said.  
Iceman's left hand was on his hip and the other was pulling a pen out of his pocket. He played with it nervously for a moment. "They have a base there?"  
"Of course," Jester said, crossing his arms.  
"I can't move to Nevada," Maverick said. He was suddenly feeling very clammy. "Did they say why?"  
"We may merge with NSAWC."  
"Why would we do that?"  
Jester hesitated.  
"Heatherly -"  
"It's BRAC." He sounded defeated. "They've been pushing for it for years. We put it off. You put it off," he told Maverick.  
"But - custody." Maverick stared at his feet. "My hearing..."  
"Nothing's finalized yet," Jester said.  
"How come I wasn't the first to hear about this?"  
Jester and Iceman exchanged an uncomfortable glance.  
"Three guesses," said Iceman.  
-

"Typical German, I guess."  
Maverick was in the stall of the men's, unsuccessfully trying to get a coffee stain out of his browns with those shitty tan paper towels and that shitty pink hand soap. Two lieutenants had wandered in and begun discussing Iceman.  
He was half listening to them, half absorbed in his own self-pitying thoughts. It was just starting to sink in - my wife left me. She's taking my son away from me.  
Denial went a long way in the Mitchell family, but it didn't last forever.  
"Fucking Nazi, more like."  
The other lieutenant chuckled in response and shifted his weight around as he did his fly. "Maybe he's gay."  
"Maybe he's a gay Nazi."  
"He's real good, though. You see that dive the other day?"  
"I think Maverick's better."  
"You're crazy."  
"No, come on, he's always coming up with stuff. Commander Kazansky's just like, oh hey, this is how you're supposed to do it. Like that's going to help us when we have our asses pinned five to one and the textbook's saying to roll over and play dead."  
Maverick grinned to himself.  
"Yeah, but he's actually seen it. He's been out there. I mean, what's Mitchell done? He was good fifteen years ago. He's kind of a has-been."  
"He's just... I don't know. You call Stacy back?"  
The conversation faded as they rounded the corner.

-

July 13, 1998. Marine Corps Air Station, Miramar, California.

A few members of the Coast Guard were there to testify, their uniforms standing out like crocuses against the wood paneling of the courtroom.  
Maverick felt slightly on edge.  
"They'll find in our favor," Jester muttered. "Don't worry."  
As usual, Iceman looked like he wanted nothing better than to be somewhere else.  
Maverick couldn't blame him. They'd been there for hours, fielding dirty looks from the JAG Corps.  
"You'd think we were the Tailhook kids," Maverick replied.  
Jester snorted.  
Maverick shifted back and forth. Spending a night with Iceman and then sitting on a hard wooden bench for a prolonged period of time was - ill-advised, to say the least.  
"We've reached a decision," one of the officers said from behind the desk, steepling his fingers.  
Jester took in a deep breath.  
"We're clearing the STFI program of all responsibility from the incident occurring June twenty-fifth."  
He locked eyes with Maverick and gave him a tiny nod, as if to say, you're welcome.

July 14, 1998. 28th Street Diner, Miramar, California.

"You gotta cut him loose, Mitchell."  
"Who?"  
"Kazansky."  
Maverick took a sip of his milkshake. "Ever hear of Ted Boeck?"  
"No," Viper said, rolling up his sleeves.  
"He wrote a piece on us," Maverick said. "TOPGUN, I mean. Didn't interview me."  
Viper scoffed and muttered something about gonzo journalism. He slid his aviators off and set them on the table.  
"There's a giant target on my back, y'know?"  
"Your father had that same martyr complex," Viper said. "Look where it got him."  
Maverick sighed.  
"What do you think I did when Bradshaw died?"  
"I don't recall you doing shit."  
Viper blew a ring of smoke at him.  
"Excuse me, sir, but this diner is non-smoking," said a waitress as she went by. Viper put his cigar out on the table and clasped his hands.  
"Damage control, kid."  
"Why do I have to cut Tom loose?"  
Viper wrinkled his nose, evidently at the first-name basis. Maverick corrected himself. "Iceman."  
"It's deeply inappropriate, first off."  
Maverick bit back what he could have said, namely "what about you and Jester?"  
"We've never had a good professional relationship," Maverick said.  
"Simple clash of egos, Mitchell. It was a big pain in the ass, dealing with the two of you. I've never had two pilots pull each other's pigtails like that."  
Maverick sighed.  
"Then again, no one ever really liked you."  
"Thanks."  
"You were a safety hazard. You make guys nervous. Anyway - I'll just say this. It's gonna come back to bite you in the ass."  
"I'll take my chances," replied Maverick.

July 15, 1998. United States Navy Fighter Weapons School, Miramar, California.

"Do you think it was my fault?"'  
Iceman set his coffee down and sighed. "What?"  
"Padgett. I know you do."  
"I think it was extremely arrogant for you to assume that any pilot that passes through your tutelage is undoubtedly fit to meet the standards we set here."  
"So you do. You know what I think?"  
Iceman ignored that.  
Jester sat down, rubbed his eyes one-handedly, and let out a weary sigh.  
"When's your court date?"  
"Uh," Maverick said.  
"You don't know?" Iceman said, shaking a packet of Splenda into his cup.  
"It's the twenty-first," Maverick snapped.  
"Well, good luck," Jester told him.

July 16, 1998. United States Navy Fighter Weapons School, Miramar, California.  
"Maverick?"  
"Yeah, c'mon in," he muttered.  
Hillary cleared her throat. "I just wanted to let you know that there's a meeting tomorrow that you weren't going to be notified of."  
He looked up at the ceiling and sighed.  
"Um, and Jim Drexler locked himself in his office with a bottle of gin and says he won't come out until he finds out we're not moving to Fallon."  
"Fantastic," Maverick said, shooting her a grin. "This week just keeps getting better."  
"Que sera, sera," she said, smiling back.  
"Hey, where's Iceman?"  
"Do you want me to find out for you, sir?"  
"That'd be great."  
She returned with a slip of paper. He studied it for a moment.  
"Tell Jester to take my two o'clock."

July 16, 1998. Neurofeedback Center of San Diego, San Diego, California.

"I'm here to check in on Tom Kazansky," Maverick told the receptionist. "It's business related."  
"Tom Kazansky? Hmm... Oh, he's on the fifth floor. Take a right and it's the first door on your left."  
"Thanks."  
There was an extremely thin brunette woman in the elevator who kept giving Maverick sideways glances. He kept his eyes on the floor and his hands in the pocket of his flight jacket. That  
was the thing about taking off your wedding band. He'd gone back and fetched it out of the drain, but it was sitting on his dresser at the moment. In its place, Iceman's Navy ring had  
chafed his finger to hell and back, but it had stayed on.  
The waiting room was empty, so Maverick took the liberty of letting himself in.  
Iceman was lying back in a chair, sensors placed on various locations across his scalp, while a bearded guy in the seat next to him stared at a computer screen. The walls were a soft  
lavender and there were soothing seascapes on every wall. Maverick took a quick glance at the diploma hanging across from him. Eric Eichman, Licensed Neurofeedback Specialist. He  
cleared his throat.  
"Hey," he said, trying to play it off as smooth as possible.  
The two of them looked up in surprise, and Eric gave him a once over. "You," he said, getting up and offering Maverick his hand, "must be Maverick."  
"Yeah, actually."  
"I see what you mean," Eric said to Iceman, who grunted vaguely in response.  
"So what's going on here?"  
"Tom and I are getting to the end of our session. Would you like to stick around?" Eric said, in an soothing voice. Maverick pulled a chair over and straddled it backwards.  
"What's with the lines?" he said, gesturing toward the screen.  
"That's his EEG," Eric replied. "Actually, this is quite interesting - his alpha level spiked when you walked in," he said.  
"What does that mean?"  
"Most likely that you're a source of tension for him."  
"Yeah, well, likewise," said Maverick.  
Eric moused over and closed the program. "I think we're about finished," he said, getting up and disconnecting the leads. Iceman sat up and yawned so widely that birds could have flown  
in his mouth and escaped his notice.  
Maverick stood and fidgeted, playing with the zipper on his jacket.

-

"He sounded like a quack to me."  
Iceman held a palm up as he stopped at the water fountain and drank for what seemed like half of an hour. When he came up for air, all he did was shake his head.  
"Why can't you be normal and go see a therapist?"  
Iceman slid a pair of aviators on as he stepped into the elevator. He slid his hand under Maverick's wife beater and smiled at him like a shark that had scented blood.  
Maverick stared back at him.  
The elevator dinged and Iceman strolled out. Maverick followed like a lost puppy.  
"The irony of you telling anyone to be normal," Iceman replied, "is overwhelming."  
Maverick scowled. He hated that Iceman could go and set him off like that and not follow up.  
"I don't think I have a case," he said. His palms itched. "It's a Hail Mary pass. I think I might lose my son."  
Iceman was staring at something on or around the horizon. "Life goes on," he drawled.

July 18, 1998. United States Navy Fighter Weapons School, Miramar, California.  
"It's not the worst case scenario," Jester muttered.  
"It's Nevada. What's in Nevada?"  
"Vegas," offered Maverick.  
"I can't drag my wife to Vegas," Jim said, rubbing his temples.  
Maverick was feeling oddly serene. Any minute now he'd burst into tears and start wailing about how he'd wasted the last ten years of his life, but for the moment, he was sitting there with a smile on his face that didn't reach his eyes.  
Iceman was sitting rigidly in an armchair, glancing through the glass door whenever someone walked by.  
LC Mike Townsend, who had flown with Chipper a few years ago and managed to wrangle a job at TOPGUN on the basis that they were short-staffed and he was desperate, made a tsking noise.  
Iceman tipped his head back and parted his lips the way he did when something was weighing on his mind. The line between his brows was more pronounced than usual.  
Maverick drummed his fingers on his thigh. There was a Post-It stuck to the knee of his jeans. He peeled it off. Haircut. He ran his hand through his hair and was surprised when a strand or two fell back into his eyes. Had he really been that out of it lately? He wrote on another Post-It, dentist? and stuck it to his desk.  
"It's just insane," Jim mumbled, lighting a cigarette.  
There was a knock at the door, and Viper walked in. Everyone tensed. Mike sneezed and saluted simultaneously and hit himself in the eye.  
"Can I talk to you?" Viper said to Maverick.  
"Yeah," Maverick replied, following him out.  
Once they were outside, blinking as they were suddenly bathed in sharp California sunlight, he turned to Viper. "Why'd you stop by?"  
"I heard about -"  
"- Fallon."  
"Yes," Viper said, drawing the word out as he squinted into the sun. "That's a ways."  
"Honestly, I don't know whether to shit or wind my watch over here."  
Viper chuckled dryly. "You'll figure it out, Duke."  
Maverick paused. "Duke?"  
Viper gave him a dismissive wave. "Duke, Maverick, you know what I meant." He lit a cigar.  
Maverick sighed and sat down on the curb. "What am I doing here? Sometimes I don't even know."  
"Nobody does, kid."  
/  
"Hey."  
Iceman gave him a nod. Maverick took a seat on his desk. Iceman glanced at the space now occupied by Maverick's ass.  
"What?"  
"You're sitting on my desk," Iceman muttered.  
"Yeah."  
"Don't," Iceman said, twirling his pen, "do that."  
"You're staying, aren't you? If we move to Fallon?"  
"Mitchell... I'm forty years old. Once you get to a certain age, the calls stop coming, the jobs dry up. I'm not throwing away a good thing. What's your vendetta?"  
"I don't have a vendetta," Maverick said, swinging his legs. "I just like California."  
Iceman muttered something under his breath.  
Maverick leaned back so his head was against Iceman's keyboard and stared up through his eyelashes. Iceman slid his hands through Maverick's dark hair and kissed him.  
"Get out of here," he tossed out, returning to his paperwork.  
Maverick sat up, which was a feat of abdominal muscles considering the position he was in, and strolled out of Iceman's office, straightening his collar.

/

July 18, 1998. Cordwainer's Shop, Miramar, California.

"This is a gorgeous Italian leather. Very supple, very soft. This style says... professional, it says, look at me, I am a businessman."  
Maverick had started having his shoes custom-made around the time Charlie had stopped sleeping with him. He went to a very flamboyant French guy named Cyril in a little strand of shops about twenty minutes out of his way, but it was worth it.  
"I mean, it is a custody hearing," Maverick said. "I don't want to look like I just went out and dropped that much..."  
"Oh, of course," said Cyril. "This is more modest," he said, sliding the catalog back over to Maverick. "What size?"  
"Uh, seven."  
"Small feet," said Cyril.  
Maverick cleared his throat. "Could you maybe -" he dropped his voice a little. "Add a lift?"  
"How much? Half inch?" Cyril replied, like his request was not at all surprising.  
"Uh... a quarter, maybe."  
"We'll see. They'll be ready by tomorrow evening. Now hurry up and get out, you're not the only gay man who wants to buy shoes from Cyril."  
"I'm not gay."  
Cyril laughed hysterically as he closed the door behind Maverick, who stood there fuming indignantly and listening to the chimes jingle.

 

July 18, 1998. Miramar, California.

Iceman came over that evening, saying he wanted to talk. Maverick wasn't stupid, nor had he never used that line himself, but he let him in anyway.  
"Someone's been skimming from our funds," he said, uncapping a beer and taking a sip. "Internal affairs is launching an investigation."  
"Perfect timing," Maverick said, pulling his shirt off over his head and tossing it onto the counter.  
Iceman raised an eyebrow.  
"It's hot," he said.  
Iceman walked over and slid his hands over Maverick's waist. Maverick dropped his head against Iceman's chest.  
"Did you get a haircut?" Iceman asked, his hand undoing Maverick's fly as he buried his lips in his brow.  
Maverick laughed huskily. "Yeah."  
Iceman's hand crept lower.  
"I, uh, I've got a headache," Maverick said, pulling away and clearing his throat.  
There was a long pause. He hoped Iceman would take that for what it was, just nerves and guilt, and push past it.  
But Iceman just nodded slowly.  
/

"Who do you peg?" Maverick said, picking up a football, fumbling it, and tossing it directly into a bush. Iceman was sitting on an iron-wrought patio bench that Charlie had picked out, arms folded.  
"Hm?"  
"The embezzler," called Maverick, who was on his hands and knees looking for the ball.  
The sky was fading to a dark orange in the distance. It was the kind of sunset to ride off into, but Maverick had sold his motorcycle on eBay years ago. He got to his feet and lobbed a pass at Iceman, who sent it back with a perfect spiral.  
"Nice hands," Maverick said. "You want to play?"  
"What, football?" Iceman stood up, snorting derisively.  
"Yeah, come on," Maverick said. "What, afraid of me?"  
Iceman gave him that withering you-must-be-kidding look.  
"Ooh, the Iceman is scared," goaded Maverick. "You know I'm gonna kick your ass."  
"Fine," Iceman snapped. "Let's go."  
Maverick grinned. "Okay, my end zone's over here," he said, gesturing vaguely at the rosebushes lining the side of the house, "and you're over there."  
"It's no one we know," Iceman said.  
"Huh?"  
"The embezzler. It's not going to be anyone we know. It'll be some little troll in an office out East."  
"How do you know?"  
"I know."  
"You know, I played in high school," said Maverick, changing the subject.  
"You could see over the linemen?"  
Maverick shot him the middle finger in response and charged forward with the ball. Iceman tackled him easily, without any real malice behind it, and they stayed down maybe a second longer than necessary before Maverick turned the ball over. He was still shirtless, and there was a grass stain on his shoulder.  
They went on like that for another ten minutes or so, until Maverick managed to feint his way into a touchdown. Iceman rolled his eyes as Maverick spiked the ball and started dancing around, then called "showboating" and took him down at the waist.  
They laid there tangled up in each other's limbs, panting and smudged with dirt. Maverick was laughing so hard - dimples out in full force - that he gave himself the hiccups. Iceman groaned as he rolled over, his boner pressing up against Maverick's thigh. Maverick tensed.  
"It's an erection, Mitchell, not a binding contract," Iceman sighed.  
"I want to," Maverick murmured into his chest, taking fistfuls of his shirt. "Don't - Jesus, I'm just -"  
"Two days. I know."  
They fell into silence. Iceman's thumb traced the curve of Maverick's lips. Maverick swallowed a moan and slid his hand between Iceman's legs. Iceman rolled over so he was on top, sliding Maverick's jeans off his ass, licking a strip from his neck where his pulse was hammering at a jackrabbit speed down to his hipbone. His hands worked quickly, and soon Maverick had his underwear around his ankles like a character in a lesbian pulp fiction novel as Iceman's tongue moved to the tattoo on his thigh. The air rushed out of Maverick's lungs.  
"Shut up," Iceman panted, breath unbearably warm on his skin, "neighbors -"  
Maverick's fingernails sank into Iceman's ass and he made a choked hissing noise, grabbing Maverick by the wrist and twisting him away. Maverick kissed him again, a needy haze settling over his eyes, their tongues twining and teeth clicking together. His hips came up to meet Iceman's and he drew his mouth away and let out a few sharp syllables, a whiny groan in the depths of his throat.  
"Ice, Ice," Maverick panted unintelligibly, "neck - don't... no hickeys, court -"  
Iceman moved his lips to Maverick's chest and went lower, teasing a nipple on his way down. He was noiseless, working over Maverick like a cobra while the latter did his best impression of a porn star, whimpering and keening to beat the band. His eyes rolled up in his head as he came into Iceman's palm, shifting onto his stomach, elbows against the dirt. Iceman followed a moment later with a soft, dog-like sigh and rolled off of Maverick.  
They lay there, slick with sweat, chests heaving in the hot July evening, lit with dwindling sunlight and citronella candles.  
"So," Iceman drawled, "about that headache..."  
Maverick's whole body shook with laughter.  
July 20, 1998. Miramar, California.  
"Oye como va, mi ritmo! Bueno pa gosar, mulata..."  
"Hnnnghh."  
Maverick rolled over and made a half-hearted swipe at his clock radio. He remembered the night before in bits in pieces, beginning with Iceman grabbing his ass in between classes and ending with him presumably sneaking out while Maverick was still asleep; the final great act of denial in whatever convoluted affair they had going on.  
He stumbled into the bathroom and showered quickly, pulling his suit on and Cyril's shoes, which still smelled deliciously of new leather.  
As Maverick slipped a tie around his neck, he noticed a hickey. No, wait, two hickeys, two angry red marks that happened to be the last thing he needed right now.  
"Shit."  
He rummaged through the drawers, finally came up with a tube of concealer that Charlie had left there, and dabbed it over his skin carefully.  
"Better than nothing," Maverick muttered to his reflection.  
/  
July 20, 1998. Madge Bradley Courthouse, San Diego, California.  
Despite the early hour, the sun was already beating down on everything, leaving Maverick to sweat underneath his collar while he waited for Ned to show up.  
Charlie arrived before his attorney, stepping out of a taxi in a pencil skirt and heels, jaw set.  
As she made her way up the stairs, cutting her eyes at Maverick, he took a few steps back into the shade of the archway.  
"Good morning, Peter," she said crisply.  
Maverick gave her a nod.  
Charlie glanced at his neck. "Are you wearing makeup?"  
"What?"  
"It's coming off on your collar."  
Maverick's hand moved to his neck automatically. Charlie sighed. "Here," she said, pulling a handkerchief out of her pocket. He moved closer and she began to rub at his shirt with it.  
"Thanks," he said sheepishly.  
"How are you ever going to get along without me?" she muttered, slipping the handkerchief into her purse. They both stood, looking down the gargantuan stairway and into the street, where morning traffic was moving.  
"So," Charlie said, running her fingers over the hem of her skirt. "How's Iceman doing?"  
Maverick snorted. "Jesus Christ."  
"No, I really want to know. I have nothing but affection for the man who's been stuffing my husband like a Christmas goose for, what, three months now -"  
"You know, if you were sleeping with someone else, I wouldn't treat you half this bad."  
She laughed. "Are you kidding me? I wouldn't -"  
"Don't -"  
"I wouldn't hear the end of it!"  
"At least admit that if I had a girlfriend -"  
"It's the exact same situation."  
"It's not! It is not, and you damn well know that!" Maverick had to resist the urge to stamp his foot. "Because you think I lied to you, or something -"  
Charlie shook her head, nostrils flaring. "You never once mentioned... the whole time we were married... God, Maverick, it was a slap in the face. It's one thing if you just didn't love me anymore, but to find out I've been living a lie for years..."  
"It was never a lie, Charlie. Maybe toward the end, but... It was never... I never lied to you. Sometimes when I was younger, you know -"  
She closed her eyes, looking pained.  
"I had some... I slept with a few guys," Maverick said. It felt to him like the words were being wrenched from his mouth, one at a time. He couldn't bring himself to look her in the face.  
Charlie sighed again, this time with finality, like she was letting something go. "I knew."  
"What?"  
"I knew you were... I knew you liked men, too. I'm not blind." Charlie chuckled. "Oh, I used to get so jealous. I didn't even mind when you looked at women, but... I was always afraid you'd run off with - with another pilot, or something, and I'd be left to explain that to Nick." She paused. "And then it happened."  
"I never meant to betray you." Maverick's throat was stinging.  
"I know," she said quietly. "I thought I could have everything I wanted, without any consequences. I always thought you'd be there, waiting for me. I overestimated."  
Maverick said nothing. He'd thought much the same.  
At that moment, both Ned and Beverly pulled up in separate town cars.  
"What are you doing out here?" Beverly demanded, jogging up the stairs, panting. "We're supposed to be inside in less than a minute!"  
Ned, who was running after him, tripped and dropped his briefcase. Paperwork exploded into the hot San Diego air. Maverick went to help him.  
"I think we'll win," Ned said, as they knelt on the marble, piecing his files back together as quickly as possible. "I really think so."  
Maverick just nodded.  
/  
The beginning of the hearing dragged on for twenty minutes. Beverly and Ned said their pieces to the judge, who was a dour-looking woman of fifty.  
Maverick shifted back and forth in his seat, the whisker burn on his inner thighs rubbing against the soft fabric of his suit and making him wince.  
In all honesty, this was killing him. Maverick was a guy of immediacy. He needed to know, right now, if he was going to spend the next eleven years with his son - or the next eleven years flying out to the godforsaken East Coast to see his son.  
Despite Maverick's feelings on the subject, bureaucracy marched on for another half of an hour before the judge - the honorable Marsha Lightman, apparently - turned her attention to Charlie and Maverick.  
"If Commander Pete Mitchell and Ms. Charlotte Blackwood will stand up and give a statement on behalf of themselves," said Marsha, "this hearing will conclude, and I will take a short recess and return with my decision."  
Maverick - who was slumped ridiculously in his chair in an attempt to deal with the discomfort that Iceman, the mouthy twat, had inflicted on the lower half of his body - righted himself.  
Charlie stood.  
"Your honor, I raised Nick," she said, her voice clear and even. "That is disputed by neither Peter nor his attorney. I took him to his first day of school, to get his shots... I stayed home for almost his entire childhood so that my husband could further his career. Throughout that time, I firmly believe M - Pete's lingering problems with his own father prevented him from truly bonding with our son. I know he cares for Nick deeply, and I believe that despite his shortcomings, he is an adequate father. But that's not enough. With the high-paying, flexible job I've lined up with the Pentagon, I'm more than equipped to provide Nick with everything he could possibly need, even as a single parent." She cleared her throat. "Pete works long hours and is on the verge of relocating to Nevada for his job."  
A murmur rippled across the court and Marsha made a small note, pursing her lips.  
"I want the best for my son," Charlie said. "And I know in my heart what that is."  
"Thank you, Ms. Blackwood," droned the judge. "We will hear Pete Mitchell's statement, and then take our recess."  
The blood drained out of Maverick's face as he stood, and he grabbed onto the table as he stood, his nails sinking into the wood.  
"I don't have a speech."  
He spoke directly to the judge. A few feet to the left, Charlie sighed.  
"But I do have something to say," Maverick continued. "Charlie can stay here. She has that option. I can't uproot to D.C. And I can't lose my son. I've lost my family twice now. I can't do it again."  
He sat.  
"Thank you," Marsha repeated, rifling through a pile of papers, slipping her glasses off and rubbing her temples. "Court will resume in ten minutes, at which point I will give my final decision on the custody arrangement of Nick Mitchell. Dismissed."  
The gavel banged.  
There was a flurry of movement as everyone got up. Out of the corner of his eye, Maverick caught Charlie giving him a look. He turned his attention back to Ned, who clapped him on the shoulder.  
"Like I said, Pete - I feel good about this."  
/  
Outside, Beverly was smoking a Marlboro Light and muttering to Charlie. Maverick took some small satisfaction in knowing that he had a) quit smoking and b) always smoked cowboy killers, never Lights.  
He wanted to call Nick and apologize for everything, apologize for embodying that stupid Harry Chapin song that had always made him teary because it reminded him of his father, apologize even though it was too little, too late. He knew from experience how this would come back to bite Nick in the ass later - how it would make him bitter and insecure and leave him constantly searching for validation and affection and whatever else he had been denied.  
Maverick sagged against a pillar.  
"I don't see how she could rule against you," Ned babbled. "I mean, uh, they usually rule for mothers, but you, y'know, you don't have a history of abuse, or anything like that -"  
"Stop," Maverick muttered, not unkindly.  
Ned checked his watch. "Two minutes."  
The rest of that time was spent in uncomfortable, edgy silence.  
/  
When they got back, the judge was sitting with her fingers steepled, staring into space.  
Maverick sat down again and began clicking a pen.  
Charlie looked utterly complacent. In twelve years, he had never known her not to expect to get what she wanted - why should today be any different?  
"You both have a strong defense," Martha began. "I've spent fifteen years as a judge in the family court system, and I have seen some very open-and-shut cases. This is not one of them."  
She removed her glasses and cleared her throat. "That being said, I have made a decision to turn full custody over to Charlotte Blackwood, with negotiable and extensive visitation rights for Pete Mitchell."  
The air rushed out of Maverick's lungs, and he leaned forward in his seat, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood.  
Charlie did not react, but there was a tiny smirk on Beverly's face. Maverick rose a half-inch in his seat, every nerve in his body screaming out I want to punch him I want to punch him -  
"This case will be up for review in eight months," continued Marsha, "at which point it may be recommended that Pete Mitchell receive partial custody."  
The gavel banged.  
"Dismissed."  
Ned was talking, his voice white noise on the periphery of Maverick's focus.  
Maverick walked out, hands in his pockets. He got into his car and pulled away, throat tight with emotion that he couldn't bear to release.  
/  
July 20, 1998. San Diego, California.  
There was no one else on the road.  
He took it slowly. After the fifth drink at that shitty little sports bar, his vision had started to pool and slide and blur, but he was still Maverick, goddamnit. Not being a complete moron, he stuck to sidestreets all the way from the bar into Miramar.  
His drunken hubris had almost completely encapsulated him when a siren broke through the darkness.  
Maverick glanced in his mirror.  
Shit.  
He pulled over.  
"Good evening, sir," said the cop, sliding his sunglasses off and squinting at Maverick. "Do you realize you've been weaving back and forth for the last ten minutes?"  
"No," Maverick muttered.  
"License and registration, please."  
Maverick handed him both.  
"I'm going to ask you to submit to a sobriety test," the cop said, opening the driver's side door. Maverick glanced at his badge. Adams.  
He got up, wobbling as he did.  
Adams took Maverick by the arm and dragged him a few feet forward.  
"Please stand at attention, tip your head back, and count to thirty," he said, sounding bored out of his skull, like he pulled over drunk drivers every night of his life.  
Maverick obliged. He tried to stay as rigid as possible, but he felt himself twitching and swaying slightly.  
Fuck Adams. Fuck Adams, fuck Beverly, fuck Anderson, fuck Charlie, fuck Iceman, fuck Jester, fuck Duke -  
"That's enough," Adams interrupted. "I'm going to ask you to walk nine paces, heel-toe, and then submit to a breathalyzer."  
Maverick took three and stumbled to the ground, skinning the knee of his suit on the asphalt. A passing car slowed and its occupants, a man and a woman - probably a couple, probablyhappily married or something - rubbernecked as they went by.  
Fuck them too, for good measure.  
The breathalyzer was a little like giving a blowjob to a robot. Maverick sat on the hood of the squad car while it calculated his results.  
"Are you aware of the legal BAC in California?"  
"N -"  
"The legal limit is point oh eight. You blew a point two."  
Maverick stared at the pavement.  
Adams leaned over and spoke to his partner, who had been sitting silently in the passenger seat throughout the entire ordeal. "Let's take him down to the station. Wanna call it in?"  
The other cop grunted and clicked on his radio.  
As he was shoved ass-first into the squad car, Adams' hand firmly on his head, Maverick realized he had absolutely hit rock bottom.  
July 20, 1998. Miramar, California.  
They waited until they had actually dragged him down to the station to arrest Maverick, heaving him out of the car carelessly.  
"If no one picks you up, you can spend tonight in here getting sober," said the mustached cop at the front desk. "Anyone you want us to call?"  
Maverick rattled off Iceman's phone number and Adams threw him into one of the two cells in the back.  
"Will I get time?" Maverick slurred at him, staggering backward onto a bench. He'd never actually spent time in jail before, and he was a little worried about his career, to be frank. He was already going to be facing down a suspension and a hearing (at the very least) when they found out about his DUI.  
Adams shook his head. "First time offense is a slap on the wrist and a fine. Oh, and you'll have to go to First Offender's School to get your license back," he tossed out over his shoulder as he walked away.  
Fantastic.  
Maverick slumped against the stone wall. Next to him was an elderly man in a suit and a young guy with a shiner.  
"Hey," the owner of the shiner said, offering his hand. "I'm Hector."  
Maverick shook it and blurted out his callsign before he could stop himself.  
Did your mother not like you, or something? a phantom Charlie whispered in his ear. He bit his lip.  
Hector didn't seem to find it strange, though, and just nodded. "So what are you in for?"  
"I drank," Maverick said. "And drove," he added, in a sad, sing-songy tone.  
"Oh, we all do that," said the old man.  
Maverick dropped his head into his hands and pressed his palms against his eyelids, letting out a sigh. He couldn't help thinking of all the people he was fucking over - Jester, with his quietly ardent, bulldog-like loyalty, who had willingly accepted Maverick as Viper's replacement... And Iceman, whom he infuriated on a daily basis. Iceman, who looked at him like they were the only two people in the world, who forgave his shortcomings and his issues and his bullshit.  
Maverick wondered how many times he could fuck up before it was one too many.  
And then Nick, of course. The light of his life. His biggest, most painful regret.  
He twisted in his seat so the other two in the cell couldn't see him tear up, propped his head up with his elbow and fell into a fitful, drunk, dreamless sleep.  
/  
Maverick began to stir hours later at the sound of footsteps. In the darkness there was a creak and a shuffling noise, and a soft band of light fell on his face. He glanced up to see the cop from the front desk shining a flashlight at him.  
"Someone's here to fetch your sorry ass," he grunted, and stepped aside. Maverick staggered to his feet and out of the cell.  
It was Iceman, standing in shadow, looking at Maverick with an expression he couldn't quite place.  
"Get," said the cop, pushing him toward Iceman, who turned on his heel and headed out of the building. He waited until they were out on the pavement before turning to Maverick.  
"What the hell is wrong with you?"  
Maverick tried to hold himself together, but in that instant the little Dutch boy took his finger off the dam and all hell broke loose. He stood there, choking on his own sobs, tears streaming down his face.  
Iceman stared at him.  
Maverick bit down on his tongue and managed to slur, "I lost Nick."  
Iceman stepped a little closer and hesitantly reached an arm out to him, and then both, and then grabbed him and held him tightly, sliding his hand through Maverick's hair and stroking the back of his neck while Maverick cried into Iceman's chest.  
"I'm sorry," Iceman murmured quietly, lips brushing Maverick's forehead.  
Maverick tried to get a hold of himself because fuck, this was embarrassing, but he was so very, very drunk...  
They stayed like that for at least a few minutes until Iceman cleared his throat, jerked his thumb in the direction of the glass door and said, "They're going to think we're a couple of homos, Mitchell."  
Maverick gave a hiccup-y laugh and backed off, listing to starboard. All of a sudden his stomach quaked and he turned and was violently ill onto the curb.  
Coughing, he turned back to Iceman, who wrinkled his nose in disgust.  
"Here," he said, tossing a handkerchief at him. Maverick wiped his mouth. "Keep it," he added, taking Maverick by the sleeve and dragging him toward his car. Somewhere between the crying and the vomiting Iceman had become all business again, and Maverick had the feeling he was about to get chewed out.  
They pulled out of the parking lot and into the darkness. Maverick snuck a glance at his watch: it was two in the morning, and there was no one else on the road.  
Iceman's head was tipped forward at a slight incline and his lips were pursed slightly; Maverick could tell he was forming sentences in his head that would not be said until they had been fully polished and arranged.  
Before Iceman could speak, Maverick blurted out, "You think I took the easy way out, don't you? Staying at TOPGUN."  
Iceman didn't look away from the road. His shoulders quirked.  
"I didn't. I didn't... I don't think they would've broken my sp - my spirit... like teaching did..."  
It was hard to form coherent sentences and even harder to express them. Maverick tried to gather himself. He fixed his gaze on the dashboard.  
"I had to do every... everything their way," he murmured. "When I flinal - finally got where I am, I didn't... anymore... I don't think I'm the pilot I was ten years ago."  
Iceman snorted. It wasn't particularly derisive, but it still stung.  
"Things just slipped through my fingers." He clenched his jaw so as not to cry again, because he knew that Iceman was past holding him, past sympathy.  
Iceman was quiet for a long time. They were almost out of San Diego before he spoke again.  
"Anderson was arrested about six hours ago."  
Maverick jerked to attention. "What?"  
"The JAGs found evidence on his computer that, uh... suggested he had been the one embezzling funds from us. Someone made an anonymous tip because they suspected he had been taking cash from the government in exchange for getting funding cut for TOPGUN... While they were investigating, they found both."  
Maverick was quiet. "Someone, huh?"  
The ghost of a smirk crossed Iceman's face. "They're thinking he wasn't the only one involved. In comparison..."  
"A DUI isn't that bad."  
Iceman nodded.  
"Are you mad at me?" Maverick asked, his voice soft.  
Iceman sighed slowly.  
"I get a call at ten o' clock at night... This guy Pete Mitchell's down at the station, he gave us your number, do you want to come get him? I spent thirty minutes thinking maybe I should just leave you there to rot for the night. But I didn't."  
He put his turn signal on.  
"Am I mad at you? I think you're an idiot, sure. I think you're a reckless idiot. Fine, you're upset, you made a bad decision - I don't know what went down today and I don't want to know. I just want some stability from you for once. I'm tired of running after you."  
The rest of the trip passed in silence.  
/  
They pulled up to Iceman's house in the dead silence of the early hour, inky night broken by the occasional streetlight.  
Maverick got out gingerly, dimly aware of the fact that he was still in a suit. Iceman helped him inside and let him flop onto the couch like a ragdoll, then put a pot of coffee on and disappeared.  
Maverick took a moment to glance around. Iceman's decor was as minimalist as ever; it didn't even feel like someone lived there.  
He tipped his head back, letting his mind wander. Where would he live in Fallon? Was there even anything in Fallon?  
There was thudding on the stairs and Iceman reappeared, tossing a pair of pajama pants and a shirt that said Fuck Me, I'm German on the front and Octoberfest 1994 on the back at him.  
Maverick started to strip. He glanced around as he pulled his briefs off to find Iceman sneaking a peek at him. He would have laughed, had it not been for the current circumstances. Nothing ever changed with them, did it?  
"Coffee's brewing," Iceman said, wandering into the living room area. "I'm going to bed."  
Maverick got up.  
"No. Couch." Iceman handed him a quilted blanket.  
"But -"  
"Couch," Iceman said sternly, like Maverick was a badly behaved dog. "Sober up."  
He pinched Maverick's bicep and headed back upstairs.  
/  
Maverick jerked awake for the second time that night to the sound of someone screaming.  
"Wh -" he stumbled off of the couch, adrenaline pumping, heading immediately for Iceman's bedroom.  
Iceman was tangled in his sheets, soaked with sweat, hollering "please no, God, no, please", his voice feverish and fearful in an awful and primal way. Maverick had heard him panicked before, had heard him scared as hell and pinned by five MiGs, but he had never heard this before, not even on that first night they'd spent together.  
This was pure horror.  
Iceman cracked his head on the headboard as he writhed, still half-buried in sleep, and Maverick made an attempt to grab him and hold him down. It was like trying to grab a salmon. He finally managed to pin Iceman's arms, and Iceman moaned in fear and made a gagging noise. Maverick put more pressure down on him, muscles burning with the effort.  
Iceman began to quiet. The mask of sleep lifted from his eyes and he lay there, panting and shivering.  
Maverick took a step back.  
"W - wh -"  
"It's just me," Maverick said quickly, "it's just me..."  
Iceman rolled over and struggled with the sheets, peeling them off of himself. He was shaking like a leaf.  
"Ice."  
Iceman tilted his head like he wasn't quite sure where the sound was coming from.  
"Are you okay?"  
Iceman reached an arm out to Maverick and pulled him closer. Maverick climbed into the bed next to him. "Tom -"  
He held his hand up and cleared his throat. Maverick tried to steady his own breathing.  
Iceman sank back down onto his pillow. Maverick noticed for the first time how gray he had gotten around the temples, how deep the line between his eyes was.  
He slid beneath the covers and reached for Iceman, grabbing his hand, murmuring hey tentatively. Iceman glanced at him. A muscle in his jaw twitched.  
Maverick didn't know what else to say. He remembered nights of comforting his mother after those two somber soldiers had come to their door with that flag in their hands - we're so sorry for your loss, ma'am - and nights of soothing Nick's nightmares, but Iceman was so far away at that moment. He was on the other side of a gulf, hunkered down with his hands over his ears.  
He tightened his grip on Iceman's hand.  
"I'm here," he said firmly.  
Iceman pulled Maverick closer to him and buried his face in Maverick's shoulder, grabbing a fistful of his shirt, still shaking like he would fall apart.  
Maverick smoothed a hand over Iceman's hair.  
"I'll stay," he murmured.  
/  
The following morning Maverick woke with a serious case of cottonmouth and a ringing in his ears that turned out to be the telephone. He sat bolt upright and, upon seeing that Iceman was missing, tried to leap out of the bed and went crashing to the floor, tangled in blankets.  
A moment later Iceman appeared in the doorway, looking exhausted. "It's Jester," he said, handing the phone to him. Maverick fumbled his way out of the sheets and grabbed it. Iceman left the room.  
"Hello?"  
"Nice to hear from you, Pete."  
"Yeah, um, hey, did - did you hear about... last night?"  
"Of course."  
"Ah."  
"Listen, with what's going down with Anderson, that's the least of our worries."  
Maverick cleared his throat. "Okay. Good. That's what - um, how did you know where to find me?"  
Jester chuckled. Maverick heard him light a cigarette. "I'm not as dumb as I look."  
"Yeah, okay," Maverick muttered.  
"Listen, I've given you a ration of shit about this, but as it stands, as long as you're not a criminal, I don't give a shit what the two of you do in the privacy of your bedroom. If we make it to Fallon in one piece, it'll be a miracle. Have a good one, kid."  
"You too," Maverick muttered, getting to his feet and pulling his pants back up over his ass.  
He walked into the kitchen where Iceman was bent over the sink, running water over his palms and staring out the window.  
"Hey."  
Iceman wiped his hands off on a dishrag and turned around.  
Maverick set the phone down on the kitchen table.  
Iceman jerked his head toward the door to the patio and departed through it. Maverick followed him, his feet chilled through his socks as they hit stone. Iceman settled into one of the peeling, white iron-wrought chairs and beckoned Maverick to him. Maverick, broad-shouldered and clumsily hungover, sat rather awkwardly on his lap. Iceman winced.  
"I wish these chairs had cushions," he said. He drummed his fingers against Maverick's thigh.  
"Did you think about me?" Maverick blurted out.  
Iceman tipped his head to the left.  
"During all that time. Before... before last May."  
Iceman nodded. "I gave you some thought," he said. "There were some guys that reminded me of you - young guys, mostly. Nobody quite like you, but it was always in the back of my head."  
"Why'd you come back?"  
"I was done."  
"Done with what?"  
Iceman stared off into the distance for a minute or so before he spoke. "Dogfighting."  
"Did you think about me? When you decided?"  
"Is this twenty questions?" Iceman snapped. "I knew you were still working there, yes. Did it factor into my final decision? I can't say. I didn't expect we were going to fuck each other, no. Is that it?"  
Maverick fell silent. Iceman let out a beleaguered sigh.  
"Sorry," he said shortly.  
Maverick's mouth twitched. "Fine. I know I push your buttons."  
Iceman snorted and snaked his bad hand around Maverick's waist, flinching when his watch snagged on Maverick's shirt and twisted his wrist.  
"Was I a good father?"  
Iceman sighed.  
"I don't know."  
"Did I deserve this?"  
"How can I make that call? You know, I used to think in black and white the way you are now. But I don't know anymore. I don't know. I think Charlie hurt you and I think you're letting that hurt do the talking. It's not about your ego when there's a kid involved." Iceman pushed his hair back.  
"You don't know a lot of things."  
"Yeah, it's nice to admit that."  
Maverick's gaze fixed on a tree a good twenty feet away.  
Iceman's forehead brushed his jaw.  
"You need a shave."  
Maverick nodded.  
"And a shower. You smell like a brewery."  
But Maverick lingered, missing Nick, and Iceman continued to hold him, licking the wounds he would never let anyone see, and together, they watched the sun come up over the distant ocean.


End file.
